


Up for Interpretation

by trash4ficsaboutlurv



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes / Natasha Romanoff - Freeform, Danny Rand is South Asian, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Humor, James "Rhodey" Rhodes / Monica Rambeau, M/M, Misty Knight / Danny Rand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-08 00:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7735813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash4ficsaboutlurv/pseuds/trash4ficsaboutlurv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a moment of panic, Sam tells his mom he's dating Steve and now, he sort of has to date Steve...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waffles, Cheesecake, and Sweet Potato Pie

It was a dumb thing to say, but it wasn't that dumb. Or at least, it made sense. A little. It was the kind of mistake anyone could make. Misty clearly didn't think so with all the side-eye she was giving Sam as they drove down the highway back to Sam's apartment. She would have been giving him full-on, shaking-my-damn-head eyes if she weren't driving. Sam was resolutely staring out the windshield like he didn't feel her judgment burning a hole in the side of his face. It was actually taking a lot of willpower not to fidget or tap his fingers on the dashboard. Misty would leap on his innocent drumming as proof that he knew he'd fucked up; she was coiled like a panther ready to pounce on a baby deer. Or whatever panthers ate. 

Note to self: look up what panthers eat.  

T'challa probably knew, but T'challa had an annoying habit of ignoring Sam's texts or giving him imperious, regal looks whenever he asked questions that weren't mission related.  Misty had told Sam that T'challa was a lot more serious than Sam and that he thought Sam was making fun of him most of the time, which, fine, maybe Sam was. But T'challa was always so royal and kingly and perfect; Sam couldn't help teasing him. He was like the solemn, serious older brother Sam had never had – if only because his actual brother, Gideon, was a goofy mess.  

Misty and T'challa got along great, which irked Sam to no end. Everyone got along with Misty. That was the problem actually. Sam's mother loved Misty, couldn't fathom why they had broken up five years ago. And worse, that they'd stayed friends. She seemed to think that Sam's amicable parting with Misty was a scheme set up especially to hurt her, that Misty and Sam had 'demoted' from lovers to friends in some sick, twisted plan to dangle what could have been in front of her for all time. 

"It would have been better if one of us had cheated and we hated each other," Misty had said once.  

"Yeah, then she could get over you. Have some closure." 

As it was, Sam's mama always invited Misty over to Sunday brunch and sometimes Misty took her up on it. But that inevitably led to: "It's such a shame you two couldn't make it work" and "Y'all woulda made such pretty babies" and "Y'all ought to stop playing games and try again." 

And Sam was a little impatient with his mama's comments at brunch today and Lord only knew why, he decided to tell a little lie to get her off his and Misty's back and he said, "Mama, Misty and I are just friends, and besides, I'm seeing someone now." 

And both Misty and his mama raised their eyebrows and in unison said, "Who?" 

And then: "Why haven't you talked about them before?" 

"Do I know them?" 

"How long have you been seeing 'someone.'?" 

"Is it serious?" 

Sam stuffed his face with French toast to get out of answering as he searched his brain wildly for a sustainable lie. But nothing doing because Misty and his mama weren't giving him very much time to think with all their questions darting at him like wasps.  

"What's their name?" 

"Whose their family?" 

"Where'd you meet?" 

"Boy, you better answer me when I'm talking to you." 

"It's Steve," Sam yelped, tossing out the first name he could think of. 

"Steve?" Misty said. "As in 'Oh Captain, my Captain'? Since when?" 

And Misty and Sam's mama were pinning Sam down with such demanding looks that the only escape was to dig deeper into the lie and hope there was an exit on the other side. "We're keeping it quiet," he mumbled. "Publicity and all that." And then he spun a tale of such beautiful simplicity, it was hard to believe it wasn't true. That he and Steve had been hanging out a lot, that one thing had led to another, that they were taking things slowly, that it was all very hush hush and that's why he hadn't told Misty, even though she was one of his best friends, and he hadn't told his mama because he didn't want her to fall in love with Steve and then for it not to work out. The lies tripped off his tongue. 

But the moment Misty and he were in the car together, she turned on him and said, "No way. No fucking way." 

And Sam said, "What?" 

And she said, "No way you and Steve are dating and you don't tell me first thing. No way." 

"It was just to get my mama to chill out, okay?" 

"Not okay," Misty said. "Because you know damn well she's inviting him to brunch next week, if she hasn't already written his name in the family bible and put him in her will." 

Sam grimaced. "Fuck." 

Misty patted his knee and started the car. "You did _not_ think this through, Buttercup. And Steve?" 

Sam frowned. "What about him?" 

Misty rolled her eyes. "Oh come on, Sam. You're dumb, but you're not _that_ dumb." 

Sam tapped the lock/unlock button on his door. "I have no idea what you're talking about." 

And Misty gave him serious side-eye the whole way to his apartment. When she dropped him off, she leaned over into the passenger seat and said, "You could have said any name in the whole wide world and you said Steve. Think on that, Sammy." 

Sam sighed, irritated and tugged at his collar. "Don't call me Sammy," he said half-heartedly.  

Misty brushed his words away with a wave of her bionic arm. "Colleen wants to go bowling this Friday and Rhodey won't come unless you do. You can bring your boyfriend." 

"He's not my boyf--" 

"That's not what Mama Wilson thinks," Misty said with a mischievous grin. "And if she found out you had lied to her..." Misty shook her head and tsked. "If there's one thing Mama Wilson can't abide, it's someone who lies to her face." 

Sam groaned. "You could at least try not to enjoy this so much. Gleeful is not a good look for you." 

Misty pushed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. "Every look is a good look on me, Sammy." She smiled. "And come bowling. Danny says he hasn't seen you in forever and if Rhodey doesn't come, Colleen won't have any real competition." 

"Fine," Sam said. "But you have to help me get out of this with my mama." 

Misty grinned. "Oh, that's easy." 

Sam perked up. Good, ole Misty. Coming through with solutions. "What? How?" 

"Just date Steve," she said, starting to reverse out of his driveway. "Then it wouldn't be a lie." 

"I hate you," Sam called after her, pulling his phone out of his back pocket where it was vibrating and announcing a call from his mom. 

"No, you don't!" Misty yelled. She always did get the last word.  

"Hey, Mama," Sam answered the phone.  

"Hey, baby. Bring Steve around this Sunday. I want to meet him." 

Sam looked up at the cloudless blue sky, willing an alien invasion to come and deliver him from his mama's nosy inquiries into his love life. No such luck.  

"Yes ma'am." 

*** 

"You could've said that Steve was busy," Monica said at dinner Monday night. She punctuated her conversation with emphatic gesticulations of a fully loaded fork, cheesecake in danger of flying at any moment. "Leads me to think you _want_ to pretend to be dating Steve at Mama Wilson's Sunday brunch."  

Rhodey, whose lap Monica was sitting in, turned her wrist and stole her bite of cheesecake. She smiled down at him. " _That_ was mine." 

Rhodey smirked. "Well, come get it," he said, a flirtatious challenge dancing in the corners of his smile.  

Monica rolled her eyes, but dipped her head all the same to kiss him. Sam watched them with a masochistic fascination. Where was his person? Who was going to kiss cheesecake out of his mouth? Monica turned her body so that she was fully straddling Rhodey, which pushed the Formica-topped table right into Sam's chest. He grunted in pain, but they didn't notice. Sam glanced out the window, but it was so dark outside and so bright in the diner that his reflection was all he could see. And were those high-definition crows' feet at the corners of his eyes? He'd accepted a long time ago that he was going to have laugh lines. They were proof of a happy life, after all, but the gossamer thin wrinkles at the corners of his eyes hit his vanity a little too square in the chest. They told him that he wasn't getting any younger and that he was going to die alone.  

The last serious relationship Sam had been in had been with Misty.  And they'd been good together: the sex was good, the conversation was good, the companionship was good, everything was perfectly comfortable.  And when Misty had broken up with him, it had been a little bit of a surprise. 

"I thought we were fine," Sam said. "What's wrong." 

"Nothing's _wrong,_ " Misty admitted. "But is that why you stay together with someone? Because nothing's wrong? Call me naïve, but I want to desperately miss you when you're gone. I want to get giddy when I think about you." 

"What _do_ you feel when you think about me?" Sam asked, morbidly curious.  

Misty sighed. "I feel nice. I feel pleasant." 

Sam nodded. "Yeah, me too." And that had been that. They broke up, collected their things from each other's houses and after about three months, they were back to being best friends without feeling weird about it. It was the nicest break-up Sam had ever been through, which probably meant it was for the best.  

Since Misty broke up with him, Sam had gone out with one of his coworkers, Lindsay Liu, but they hadn't had much in common except their penchant for athletic sex.  He'd hooked up with one of Danny's cousins,  Maharvin, who had been lean-bodied, glossy-eyed, and brown skinned, with lovely, dark hair that lay in perfect waves and a laugh that unraveled Sam entirely. Sam might have fallen completely in love with him if he hadn't gone back to India to take over his father's medical practice. Danny still teased Sam about how much he had been under Maharvin's spell and every time he visited his extended family, he said to Sam, "Maybe I'll bring Maharvin back with me this time. So you can't say all I got you was a shitty keychain." 

But Sam couldn't pine after a guy he'd had a fling with one glorious summer – how long ago had it been? Two? Three years ago? Sheesh. What had Sam been doing this whole time? Avenging, hanging out with friends, a very few casual hook-ups with Misty when both of them were feeling vulnerable and lonely at the same time, a few casual hook-ups with Avenger groupies that left Sam feeling a little hollow and unfulfilled. He hadn't gone out with anybody in months, hadn't had sex since – Good lord? Had it been New Years with Tisha Sharpton, the weather girl from the local news? Natasha had pursed her lips judgily as Sam and Tisha stumbled past at Stark's New Year's party and then she'd done a very accurate impression of Tisha's overly bubbly affectations that had Steve in stitches, clutching his sides and crying. That had been eight months ago. Yikes.  

But who had the time to go looking for life partners? Superhero-ing took up so much time; so did the VA, even after Sam cut his hours down. And then he spent the rest of his time with Steve, or with Rhodey and Monica, or Danny, Misty, Colleen, Luke, and Claire. He liked spending time with them, it didn't feel like work and auditioning the way dating did.  

Steve and Sam could sit sprawled on the sofa for hours watching action movies and chef competition shows, ordering in mammoth amounts of take-out and complaining about whatever. Sometimes Steve even stayed the night if it got too late or they were too engrossed in a dumb romcom's predictable ending.  

Sam had a standing Monday dinner date with Monica and Rhodey, which they very generously hadn't ended once they started dating. And okay, they were making out at the table while Sam finished his fries, but in general, they didn't make him feel like a third wheel on their rose-bedecked bicycle. And Sam loved hanging with Danny and the gang. They were really into 'activities,' which Sam had lamented at first because he preferred to lounge around someone's apartment with a couple bottles of beer, but now he looked forward to karaoke, bowling, and trivia nights. The gang never took anything too seriously and they had a lot of fun. And Claire liked to say they looked like an ad for diversity with the Indian guy, the black girl, the lesbian Japanese girl, two black guys (one of whom was bisexual), and the pansexual Afro-Latina. Sam had a lot going for him in the friend department was the point. And a lot of times – these past eight months apparently – that had been enough.  

But watching Rhodey and Monica – still! -- going at it, reminded Sam how much he loved lazy make-outs and egregious PDA, that he liked to kiss the cheesecake out of someone's mouth from time to time. And now that Misty and Monica mentioned it, Sam really wouldn't mind if that person was Steve. There had always been a spark between them, a lovely frission, but Sam hadn't done anything about it because – well, for a lot of reasons.  

First one being Bucky. 

James Buchanan Barnes. The guy Steve went to war over, the guy who Steve talked about and thought about and pined about all the damn time until they found him. And then Tony tried to kill Bucky and Bucky went on ice, so it was back to Steve talking about and thinking about and pining about him. 

And it wasn't that the _zing!_ between Sam and Steve didn't exist. It did and it was undeniable and electric and lovely. But Sam didn't play second fiddle to anyone. And you could have frission with a really hot guy all you wanted, but if he was in love with his best friend from seventy years ago and they had a whole tragic thing, you didn't twiddle your thumbs and mope. You moved on, which is what Sam had done. And it wasn't really that hard to just be friends with Steve, because Steve was a great friend. And Sam had dated people and been perfectly happy with his lot in life.  

The same couldn't be said for Steve. 

When Bucky came off cryo, he and Steve had had a really complicated, un-fun relationship that was painful to watch. It broke your heart just to see how much they wanted from each other, but neither had it to give; resentment and despair bloomed like poisonous flowers until Bucky said, "We're not that punk and that jerk we used to be. And that's okay." And they'd disentangled their life lines from one another – which Sam could have told them from jump was the best thing to do – and really accepted that by some cruel twist of fate, they were in the 21st century and there was no going back, there was no holding on and keeping the past. The was no there there anymore.  

And then about six months later, Natasha had fretted and been uncharacteristically bothered when she came to Sam and said, "I slept with Bucky. Steve is never going to forgive me." And Sam had said, "It'll be fine, Nat. Everyone could see how much you liked each other." And Steve had been a little stilted and jerky as he said, "No, it's fine. You're adults. He and I broke up," but over time, he'd stopped being stiff and uncomfortable and everyone was friends with everyone. The only time that Steve seemed even a little put-out by Natasha and Bucky was last year when they were celebrating their third anniversary together and Steve said, "I can't even get drunk" under his breath as he downed two glasses of champagne in quick succession. Sam had grabbed Steve's elbow and Steve had smiled and said, "It's not what you think," but he hadn't cared to explain and Sam didn't ask, because Steve pulled him on to the dance floor to do a bastardized waltz to some pop ballad from the early 2000s. 

Sam kicked Rhodey's foot under the table. "Guys, I think the cheesecake is gone." 

Monica un-suctioned her face from Rhodey's and grinned. "Sorry, Sam. Cheesecake just tastes really, really good." 

Rhodey nodded seriously. "It's her favorite. She's always trying to get some...cheesecake." 

Sam wrinkled his nose. "You really, really don't have to do this." 

Monica laughed. "Sorry, do you still want to talk about fake dating Steve." 

"No," Sam sighed. "I'm just gonna go home and wash my eyes in some bleach. You guys really know how to traumatize a guy." 

Rhodey shrugged. "Until you walk in on me and Monica the way I walked in on you and Maharvin, you can't complain about any of our PDA. Ever." 

Sam rolled his eyes and threw a twenty on the table. "Same time next week?" 

*** 

"I thought you were going to bring the fake boyfriend," Misty said when Sam and Rhodey arrived at the bowling alley Friday night.  

"No, _you_ said I should bring Steve. I never actually agreed," Sam pointed out. 

Rhodey kissed Misty's cheek hello. "Steve's parking the car. Sam's just being an asshole." 

"And Monica?" 

"Hates bowling more than she loves me." Rhodey hung his head for a moment, milking Misty's sympathy for all it was worth.  

Sam rolled his eyes. "Her exact words were, 'I'm not attracted to you when you turn into a rabid competitive lunatic. Or when you wear used shoes.'" 

"Ouch," Misty said.  

Rhodey shrugged in a 'what are you gonna do?'  way. "I heard Colleen wanted me to embarrass her in front of her friends and family." 

"I actually said I wanted to bring great dishonor on you and all your descendants," Colleen said, bounding up to Rhodey with Danny loping behind her. 

"Hey Sam, hey Rhodey," Danny said, pushing his long dark hair out of his face. He was wearing one of his weird ponchos with khaki shorts that had seen better days and the requisite bowling alley shoes. He reeked of sweet hookah. 

"Hey," Rhodey said, giving Danny a judgy once-over. Although they got along just fine, they were complete opposites in every way and Sam always enjoyed their interactions. 

"How's the military-industrial complex?" Danny asked, his sleepy eyes crinkling with a smile. 

"You know," Rhodey said, "still immoral and corrupt. How's the," he gestured vaguely at Danny, "ugly poncho complex?" 

"You know," Danny smiled, "still a lazy leech on the back of hard-working Americans." 

Rhodey and Danny grinned at each other before hugging.  

Sam glanced at Misty to have someone to laugh with, but she was watching Danny and Rhodey with an odd look on her face that Sam couldn't immediately place.  

Steve came in and hellos went around again and then Rhodey, Steve, and Sam went to rent shoes. When they came back, Misty and Danny were arguing about whether he should cut his hair.  

"If God himself told you not to cut it, you should still cut it," Misty was saying, twining her fingers through the dark strands that curled ever so slightly against Danny's shoulders. 

"Cutting my hair is just an attempt to conform to the bourgeoisie notion of respectability. If you want a clean cut guy, you should consort with--" Danny looked around and saw Sam, Rhodey, and Steve standing there. "Them. You should consort with these three shaved and shorn puppets of the establishment." 

"That's me," Rhodey said, holding his arms out like they were being lifted on strings. 

Misty sighed. "You know, Dhanesh Rand, some things really aren't that deep."  

Danny rubbed her knee. "If I cut my hair, you'd miss playing in it before the week was out." 

"If you cut your hair, I wouldn't mind being seen in public with you." 

"Where are you seeing each other in public?" Sam asked, quirking his eyebrow. "Dinners and movies? Wine tastings?" 

"Shut up," Misty said forcefully, as Danny, who didn't really deal in euphemisms or nuance said, "We do that stuff sometimes." 

Rhodey and Sam grinned and Misty's cheeks flushed mahogany red. "Can we just bowl?" she said, grabbing a bowling ball that was much too heavy and yelping from the pain. Danny took the ball from her and stroked her arm, murmuring something sympathetic until Sam tilted his head at Misty and she pulled away and said she was fine. Sam watched Danny watch Misty walk away.  

"You and Misty?" He asked, nudging Danny's foot.  

Danny blinked, startled. "Huh, wha—it's not—wha--shut up, Sam." 

Sam laughed. Colleen pulled her long hair into a messy topknot as she said, "They've been playing this game for, like, three weeks." 

Steve, it turned out, was as good as Colleen and Rhodey at bowling and only slightly less manically competitive about it. Sam thought they were going to be asked to leave when Colleen jumped on Steve's back to nougie him after she got _another_ strike.  

"How is it even fun when you're that good?" Claire asked, arriving late from her hospital shift and still in scrubs. She'd even charmed the kid at the front desk to let her into the lane area without renting shoes. Which shouldn't have been surprising: Claire could charm a wildfire to stop burning.  

Sam shrugged. "On the other hand," he said, tilting his head toward Danny who was up to bowl. "How is it fun when you're that bad?" Danny's ball rolled slowly down the aisle veering left until it fell into the gutter.  

"I don't think he and Misty even know what game we're playing," Claire said and took a long drag from Sam's lemonade.  

"How long has that been going on? And why didn't anyone tell me?" 

Claire shrugged. "You've been brushing us off to hang with Steve every weekend since June." 

"Have I?" Sam asked.  

Claire nodded. "'Sorry, guys. Steve and I are watching the Matrix trilogy.' 'Can't guys, Steve and I are watching all the good Die Hards.' 'Busy tonight. Me and Steve are staring deeply into each other's eyes for three hours.'" 

"That was a terrible impression," Sam said, pushing Claire's shoulder. "And sue me for wanting to stay in sometimes and watch a movie." 

"With Steve." 

"Did Misty put you up to this?" Sam asked.  

"No," Claire said. "Why? What does Misty know?" 

Sam shook his head. "Nothing." 

They watched Steve wind up to pitch his ball down the lane and the lines of his body were so elegant and Olympian, Sam's mouth went a little slack.  

"Damn," Claire said, "How long has _this_ been going on?" 

*** 

"And mine was just the first name that popped into your head?"  

"Yep, first one. Moment of panic. You know how it goes."  Sam dashed past Steve  to grab his phone then came back to straighten Steve's tie. "I thought you were wearing blue." 

"Couldn't find the shirt I wanted to wear. Actually, do you think I left it here?" 

"The denim one?" Sam asked, patting his pockets for his wallet.  

"Uh-huh." 

"Yeah, I put it in with my stuff to wash. I think it's hanging in the hall closet." 

Steve pushed off the sofa against which he'd been leaning and it scooted forward about a foot. Sam gave him a look.  

"Do you want me to change into it or will Mama Wilson be okay seeing me in gray?" 

"Gray is fine," Sam said distractedly. "We're going to be late if we have to pry you out of that tight shirt and squeeze you into another one." 

"You know," Steve said, "I'm doing you a favor. A very odd favor. You might want to be nicer to me." 

Sam slowed down and took a deep breath. "You're right. Sorry, Steve. You look great in that shirt. You would look great in any shirt." 

Steve smiled. "Wow, you're a great boyfriend. Sincere apologies, liberal compliments. I kinda like being your beau." 

"Yeah?" Sam asked, peeking up through his eyelashes as that _zing_ _!_ went between them like a current. (The frission wasn't dead, only sleeping.)  

"Yeah," Steve murmured. "At least during the hours of 11 and two today." 

"Yeah" Sam said, his cheerful tone at odds with the plummeting elevator feeling in his chest. "For one day only, gather around and witness the spectacle of Sam and Steve, a couple." 

"You say it like it's so outlandish," Steve said. He smoothed  the shoulders of Sam's dress shirt, the heat from his hands bleeding through the cotton. "Admit it, Sam, I'd make an amazing boyfriend." 

Sam smiled and tried not to overthink it as he rested his hands  on Steve's hips. "I don't know. I think you'd have to prove it," he challenged. 

Steve's eyes widened – maybe surprised at Sam's brazenness; they usually ignored the frission. Steve swallowed. "What makes a great boyfriend, then? So I can check it all off the list as I go." 

Sam tapped his chin, pretending to consider. "You'd have to remember details about me, like something specific and silly. Like, that the only raisins I'll eat are from the Raisin Bran cereals because they've been lightly sugared." 

"Is that true?" Steve asked. 

"That I eat them or that they've been lightly sugared?" 

"Both?" 

"Raisins can't really be redeemed by sugar, but they do dust them with it." 

Steve frowned. "Natasha told me Raisin Bran was healthy." 

Sam shook his head, enjoying their proximity but keeping his mind on this mundane conversation. "You should read up on the food industry. They put sugar in everything, but that's neither here nor there. That was just an example of the kind of quirky thing you should know about me if you're really a good boyfriend." 

Steve nodded seriously. "Okay, what else?" 

"Um," Sam said, tapping his chin, "we should always have banter. Witty quips only. Unless you're yelling at me because you care so much and then you'll kiss me angrily and we'll know that we're in love." 

"Now, you're just listing dumb romcom tropes," Steve pointed out.  

Sam wrinkled his brow, really thinking now. "Oh, I know! Casual touch!" he said. "You've gotta make it seem like even being an inch away from me is agony, like every moment that you aren't brushing lint off my cuff or patting my knee is a moment that your heart stops beating." 

"So dramatic," Steve said, smiling. 

"You asked." 

"Alright," Steve said. "I have to know you, I have to have banter with you, and I have to touch you. I kinda do all that stuff already." 

"Well, take it up a notch," Sam said, staring at the knot of Steve's tie and then, very much against his better judgment, lifting his gaze to meet Steve's.  As he had suspected, the _zing!_ was too much to bear this close up. The air felt humid and charged like they were standing in the middle of a thunderstorm. "Take it up a notch for my mama," Sam said, breaking the spell.  

"For the spectacle," Steve agreed, sounding so unaffected that Sam had to wonder if he'd imagined the tension from a mere five seconds ago. 

"Right," he said, letting his hands fall from Steve's narrow hips as his heart did another of those elevator free fall things.  

In the car, another idea struck him. "You can't be too good of a boyfriend, though" he said. 

Steve glanced at him and grinned. "Afraid you'll fall in love." 

"Afraid my mama will fall in love." 

"So be a _bad_  boyfriend?" Steve asked. 

"No. I want her to like you." 

"Why?" 

"Because _I_ like you." Sam said, looking straight ahead.  

"So you want me to make myself likeable but not loveable?" 

Sam frowned. This was going to be impossible. "Fuck," he muttered. "I didn't think this through. We should cancel." 

"We're literally two minutes away according to the handy-dandy GPS." 

"Two minutes away from disaster. It's not like we can break up tomorrow or she'll be suspicious." 

Steve turned the car on to Mama Wilson's road. "What are you thinking? Three months?" 

"That's so long! For you, I mean. You might want to go out on a hot date and you're Captain America so there will be press and, fuck!" 

"Sam, calm down." 

"This was dumb. I'll just tell her I lied. She won't make me sweet potato pie and she'll never let it go, but it's fine." 

"You love your mama's sweet potato pie," Steve said. "I will fake date you and fake break up with you, so you can continue to receive desserts." 

"I could have said any name and I said Steve like an idiot. Steve! Captain America." 

Steve pulled into the driveway behind an old Cadillac. "How are you only now having all these panicky thoughts?" he asked. 

"I'm great at procrastinating," Sam snapped. 

Steve grabbed Sam's hand and squeezed gently. "Just you wait, in three months, we'll see this as the fun, little adventure it is. Like Rhodey's bachelor party. Or that time Danny press-ganged us into that weird retreat in Utah. Now, take a very deep breath and release. We're going to go in here and be slightly more affectionate than usual and maybe we'll have to do this every Sunday until we break up, but that's hardly that big of a deal. Right?" 

Steve's blue eyes were like the calm, placid waters of a lake. "Right," Sam said. "You're right." 

"Now, are we taking our cues from Monica and Rhodey or are we going to do a Nat / Bucky thing?" 

For one glorious moment, Sam allowed himself to imagine he and Steve were like Monica and Rhodey -- with their overt, loud, showy love, their can't-get-enough-of-you-even-after-two-years-of-dating-and-three-months-of-marriage love, their eat-the-cheesecake-out-of-your-mouth-in-public love. And then on the other side of the coin was Nat and Bucky who weren't into PDA of any sort, who only had that three-year-anniversary party because Sharon insisted and did all the work (Sharon had been a steely-eyed event planner in another life, everyone was sure of it). If you didn't know Nat and Bucky were together, it was impossible to tell.  

"Somewhere in the middle," Sam said. "Probably closer to Rhonica than Buctasha." 

"Buctasha?" Steve repeated. 

"You know what I mean. Nothing too intense; this is my mama, but you know, goo-goo eyes should feature heavily." 

"Noted," Steve said. He opened his car door. "Shall we?" 

*** 

When Sam's mama opened the door, she immediately took Steve's hands in hers and smiled up at him like he was long lost family.  

"Mama, this is Steve," Sam said, holding himself perfectly still to keep from fidgeting. 

"I know who he is," Mama Wilson said. "Lordie, you are a lot of man." She ran her hands up Steve's arm as high as she could reach as Steve blushed brilliantly red.  

"Mama, you're embarrassing him." 

"Let the boy speak for himself," his mama said.  

Steve smiled sheepishly. "Hi, Mrs. Wilson." 

"Don't have to be so formal," she said. "Any beau of Sam's can call me Miss Darlene. Come on in." She patted Steve's arms one last time and then disappeared into the house. 

Steve raised his eyebrows at Sam before following her. 

Mama Wilson had cooked the usual feast of bacon, mini omelets, waffles, and biscuits with gravy, and after very little encouragement, Steve stopped pretending like he had the appetite of a two year old and went to town on the spread. Mama Wilson watched with a delighted gleam in her eye as Steve went for thirds. Misty was vegetarian (Danny's influence) and Mama Wilson always took it personally when Misty passed over everything but the waffles. Misty liked to joke that it was a good thng she was vegetarian else Sam's mama would have thought she was perfect and would absolutely never have accepted that they'd broken up.  

"I was going to bring you flowers," Steve said as he cut his waffles into bite size squares, "but Sam told me he always sends you a bouquet Saturday mornings." He nodded to the centerpiece of sunflowers and aster. 

Mama Wilson nodded. "He's a good boy, this one. Gideon's out in California and Sarah's always running behind my grandbabies, so it's nice to know one of my children still has time for me." 

"Sam _makes_ time for people," Steve said. He glanced across the table, his gaze more heated than goo-goo and said, "It's one of my favorite things about him." 

Sam looked down at his plate, feeling as embarrassed as if this were a real boyfriend meet-and-greet and Steve meant what he was saying.  

"So when did you two start dating?" Mama Wilson asked. "How long have you been hiding him from me?" 

Steve and Sam had agreed that a month was their story. Not so long that Sam's mama would absolutely murder him, not so short that they would have to act like they were making out in closets and cars every chance they got. They had agreed to that time frame this morning, which made it quite puzzling when Steve said, "A year," as Sam said, "A month." 

Sam glared at Steve and Mama Wilson said, "Well, which is it?" 

Steve smiled. "Well, it's been a month since Sam asked me on a proper, bonafide date, but I've been dropping hints and trying to get his attention for a year. Sam is a very, very slow romancer." Steve's gaze was hot and prickly on Sam. "He asked me to hang out so many times – movie night after movie night after movie night – and I was starting to think he just liked me as a friend." 

Mama Wilson smiled and shook her head. "He gets that slow-and-steady nonsense from his daddy. My Paulie courted me for two years before I took him by the shoulder and said, 'A gal ain't getting any younger.'" 

"That's Sam, Miss Darlene. You wouldn't believe how many times I talked myself into and out of thinking he was interested at all. The worst time, the absolute worst time, was when he invited me to our friends' anniversary party and I couldn't tell if he meant as a date or as friends." 

Mama Wilson shook her head sympathetically, while Sam tried to look as if he were in on the story.  

"We get to the party," Steve says, "Sam picked me up and everything, and when we get there, Sam's going on and on about Sharon and how great the party she threw was. I have him on the dance floor, slow dancing to some love song, and he's talking about Sharon. And I was a little jealous, I don't mind admitting it now, and I said, 'If you like Sharon so much, why don't you marry her.' And your idiot son says, 'I think you two would make a great couple actually' and he drags me over to Sharon – who is completely uninterested in me, by the way, and does not mince words when she lets me down – and then he disappears to hang out with Rhodey and Monica." 

Mama Wilson whistled. "Sounds like you were doing everything in your power to mess it up, Sammy." 

Sam smiled uncertainly. Steve couldn't be serious, obviously. But if Sam didn’t know this was all an act, he'd believe him. Especially since Steve was a notoriously bad liar. And to be fair, everything Steve was saying _was_  technically true, but Steve was putting an impressive interpretative twist on it. Sam _had_ thought Steve and Sharon would make a nice couple. They were both brave and big hearted, and had a moral compass so fixed and true, you could plot a map by it. Plus, they both had that WASP-y look going for them, which made their relationship seem sort of inevitable. And Steve had seemed really down about the Nat/Bucky thing and Sam thought having his own romance would perk him up.  

Sharon laughing in Steve's face and saying, "You're about five years too late buddy; that ship sailed a long time ago" was as surprising to Sam as Steve. It was an even bigger surprise to learn that Sharon was dating some SHIELD tech guy nobody had ever heard of and that they were quite happy, thank you very much. And since it had been – unequivocally – Sam's fault that Steve had been embarrassed and rejected, Sam had thought it best to give Steve some space – hence, the hanging out with Rhodey and Monica.  

But this wasn't the time to explain that, so Sam just nodded as Steve continued to regale his mama with tales of Sam's romantic ineptitude.  

"New Year's was another swing and miss for us," Steve was saying between bites of watermelon that made his pink lips glisten. "It's Tony's party. I don't want to go. Tony and I aren't exactly chummy, but here Sam is, saying, 'It'll be fun. We'll have a great time. We gotta ring in the new year together.' ' _We_ ,' Miss Darlene. There was a lot 'we' being thrown around." 

Sam could see where this one was going. 

"So, imagine my surprise when I see Sam for maybe, ten minutes before her runs off with the weather girl for the night." 

"Tisha or Bethany?" Sam's mama asked, leaning toward Steve, eyebrows raised.   

"Tisha," Steve answers and then gives a great, big fake catalog smile in imitation of poor Tisha.  

"Sammy," his mama said. 

"Would it have been better if it were Bethany?" Sam asked.  

"No," Steve and his mama said in unison.  

Sam slid down in his chair. "Well, thank goodness, I got it together a month ago," he muttered. 

"Yeah," Steve said, "thank goodness for that." The way he was looking at Sam was confusing and excruciating. Sam bit his lip and tried not to look as perturbed as he felt. When Steve's gaze bounced from Sam's eyes to his mouth and back, Sam's confusion turned warm and tingly and he had the distinct impression Steve was doing whatever this was on purpose.   

Mama Wilson looked back and forth between them. "Alright, which one of you is going to tell me? How'd Sam get his act together?" 

Steve shrugged. "I've talked enough, Sam. Why don't you tell it?" 

"Are you sure?" Sam said pointedly. "You've been weaving quite a tale today." 

"Every word of it true," Steve insisted.  

Sam was torn between glaring and grinning at Steve's commitment.  

"Alright, _babe,"_ he said before turning in his seat to face his mom. "You know how it is, Mama. I'm smart, but I'm not a mind-reader. And Steve isn't exactly wearing his heart on his sleeve the way he'd have you think. A lot goes on behind those pretty blue eyes and I figure, he's been through a lot. Wouldn't it be just terrible if the person he thought was his friend was really just trying to hook up with him? It would cheapen every moment they'd had, right?" Sam was looking at his mama as he spoke, but he could feel Steve's gaze on the side of his face.  

Mama Wilson nodded. "Nothing worse than someone pretending to be your friend just to get in your pants." 

"I didn't want to be _that_ guy," Sam said. "Intentions are murky, but actions are crystal clear and hitting on your best friend might come across a little tacky, you know?" Sam tore his waffle in half. "Plus, what if Steve wasn't interested. Could we go back to being friends, no problem? Maybe. But maybe not. And in my initial cost-benefit analysis, I thought I'd rather have Steve as a friend than no Steve at all." 

Mama Wilson patted his cheek. "You're your daddy's son, alright. All these pretty excuses for not listening to your heart." 

Sam turned his face to kiss her palm. Her skin was soft with age and coconut oil. "Well, my heart got the better of my head for once. I didn't even mean to ask him out. I would never have done it if I thought about it all. But we were at Coney Island and it was just two of us and I realized we were basically on a date anyway. So, I won him a giant bear (which he gave to the first kid we happened by even though it was a token of my affection-- " 

"It was really annoying to carry," Steve interrupted. 

"Yeah, yeah. But then I turned to him and said, 'This should be a date. I'd like it if this were a date.' For half a second, logic and reason abandoned me. But it was good, because he smiled and said yeah, it should. And that," Sam said, wrenching himself out of an alternate universe where that had actually happened, "about brings us up to speed." 

Sam glanced at Steve to see how he was responding to this rewrite of history. He had taken a page out of Steve's notebook and stuck as close to the truth as possible. He and Steve had gone to Coney Island together, he had won Steve a massive bear, and he had wanted to point out how much like a date it was, but he hadn't. Not even when they got on the ferris wheel and it got stuck with them at the top, like every cliche romcom ever. And Steve had offered Sam some of his giant-sized lemonade and Sam had let Steve take huge tufts from his cotton candy and they'd talked about how beautiful it looked from that height in the dusky light and then they'd sat in this wonderful, comfortable silence and they weren't even bothered that they were sticky with sweat and theme park residue or that there wasn't much of a breeze to speak of or even that they were stuck on a Ferris wheel and the ride operator hadn't even yelled up a "Technical difficulty; we're working on it" appeasement. And Sam had thought to himself, "This is like a date," but only casually, only letting it be a joke, even in his own head. Because to seriously consider it – well, that would have been just asking for trouble.  

"I'm always telling him," Steve said, breaking their charged gaze to speak to Mama Wilson, "sometimes you just gotta leap and hope someone catches you." 

Sam looked down at his plate, a pile of waffle confetti proof of his agitation. He put his hands under his thighs.  

"That's beautiful," Mama Wilson said. "Just beautiful." 

Yeah, Sam thought, it really was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, if it wasn't obvious, there will be another chapter. I just wanted to throw up this part before Samsteve Week ended so I could say I participated :)


	2. Milkshakes, Tacos, and Sangria

"So, how was it?" Monica asked. "Did Steve stick the landing?" 

"My mom held up a perfect ten sign and then fainted," Sam said, glowering darkly into his strawberry milkshake. He brought a spoonful to his mouth, then let it fall back into the metal cup. He pushed the whole confection away. "Steve was perfect." 

Rhodey and Monica exchanged looks. "Then why do you look like he killed your dog?" Rhodey asked.  

"Huh? No, Steve was great. I mean it. He was the perfect beau." 

'DId you tell your face that?" Monica asked. "You look upset. I've never seen you look upset with a strawberry milkshake within arm's reach." 

"Maybe Mama Wilson loves him too much?" Rhodey guessed. "More than she loves Sam. Or, <gasp>, more than she loves Misty." 

"Shut up," Sam said, but it got a smile out of him. "I don't know. The whole thing was just...really...weird. It was really weird." 

"Care to elaborate?" Rhodey asked.  

Monica grabbed Sam's milkshake and took a huge drag from her straw. (She and Sam came down on opposite sides of the straw versus spoon debate vis a vis milkshakes.) Sam gave her a 'watch it' look that she very prettily ignored as she went in for seconds.  

"I don't know," Sam said to Rhodey while keeping an eye on Monica. "Steve just said some stuff that made it feel...that made it feel..." He sighed and snatched his milkshake out of Monica's reach. "It's dumb. Nevermind." He fiddled with his spoon and tried to ignore the thoughts in his head tripping over one another to throw him into a spiral. _Another spiral_. 

"So how'd I do?" Steve had asked on the car ride back home. He hadn't sounded angry exactly, but his tone was pointed. Sam could feel it in his side like a knife.  

"Great," he said, tapping the dashboard. "Mama loved you." 

"Thought we were aiming for 'like'," Steve said. 

Sam shrugged. "Well, she loved you. You really laid it on thick in there." 

For some reason, Steve's small Prius was prickly hot with tension, even though the AC unit was on full blast. Sam placed his hand over the vent to be sure and the icy breath on his palm was a small relief. 

"Guess next time I'll have to be an all-around dick to even things out," Steve said. 

Sam glanced at his profile, trying to read from the hard line of his jaw why he was so upset. He bit his lip. "Thanks, Steve, for doing this. I know it was a weird thing to ask you to do." 

Steve nodded jerkily.  

"If it means anything at all," Sam continued, "you were really convincing in there. _I_ half believed you." He tried to smile, to lighten the mood a little, but nothing doing. Even the muscles of his face were in on the hostility game and all he managed was a short grimace. "UFC fighter or actor, I'd say." 

"What?" Steve asked. 

"The first time we met?" Sam prompted. "You said you wouldn't know what to do if you weren't Captain America?" 

Steve didn't say anything, but Sam thought the car's speed definitely increased, like Steve was agitated and not paying attention to the speed limit.  

Sam leaned his head back and closed his eyes. This had been a bad idea, apparently. Maybe Steve's Boy Scout Need™  to be honest at all times was coming into Great Conflict with what he'd just done, lying to a sweet, old lady about dating her son. Or maybe Steve was just tired and cranky because he'd spent his Sunday with Sam and his mama instead of chilling with Nat and Bucky, or his reluctant mentee, America Chavez. Sam sighed, sorry that his dumb brain had spit out Steve's name instead of Tim or Shaniece or any other name not attached to one of Sam's best friends with whom he had a history of unresolved frission. He opened his mouth to say something to that effect: _Sorry, man, for dragging you into this. It was dumb._ But Steve spoke first.  

"You said that the second time we met," he murmured. 

"Huh?" 

"About the UFC fighters. We were at the VA when you said that." 

"Really?" Sam asked. He frowned. He could’ve sworn he'd said that on the Washington Mall. He shrugged. It hardly mattered. Today had been full of misremembering shit. Which Sam might've joked about with Steve if the mood didn't seem as fragile as a soap bubble.  

"The first time we met, you flirted with Nat," Steve said.  

Sam opened and closed the glove compartment. "Did I?" he asked. As _he_ remembered it, he had flirted with _Steve_.  

_After_ Steve had harassed him and ruined his usually restful morning run.  

And Steve had flirted back. Sam hadn't made _that_ up. Even if it had gone nowhere because it turned out that Steve’s old boyfriend was alive and brainwashed, and even after that had resolved itself, so much time had passed that it seemed Sam and Steve’s chance was over and that they were destined to be friends and nothing romantic. Which, hey, wasn’t a bad thing.  

But now that there was this opening, this moment to envision a romantic future with Steve, Sam found a yawning ache inside that desperately wanted to rewrite history and put them together. Heck, to make Steve’s story to his mother true. Even if it made Sam seem like a bumbling idiot who had foiled almost every opportunity to be with Steve, at least it ended with a romantic happily-ever-after. And probably in that version of events, Sam would kiss Steve, undress Steve, be undressed by Steve, do…lots of other things with Steve. He took a deep breath and stared out the window as the noise barrier walls on the side of the highway zipped past.  

When Steve parked a couple streets over from his apartment, Sam turned to say thank you again but Steve beat him to the punch. “Same time next week?” he asked, his tone wry and seemingly ironic, like he was in on a joke that eluded Sam.  

“You don’t have to,” Sam said, cringing as the words flew from his mouth.  

Steve smiled. “I told you we would look back on this and laugh,” he said. “And I meant it.” He brushed his fingers over Sam’s lips, leaving behind a tingling trail of sensation. “Put a smile on, Sam.” 

Sam’s lips seemed to turn up without his say-so and Steve’s gaze darkened.  

“Are you always this good with directions,” he asked, his fingers tracing the outline of Sam’s desperately sensitive lips. 

Sam nodded, only half-hearing the question but knowing he’d say yes to anything Steve said right now, with his blue gaze so dark and hypnotic Sam couldn’t recall a moment he hadn’t been swimming in their cool depths.  

This wasn’t how it usually was with them – there seemed to be a certain line that they wouldn’t (couldn’t?) cross without forcing a conversation. But with all this fake-pretend bullshit, maybe the line had been blurred. Even if they were only pretending for Mama Wilson, even if Mama Wilson wasn’t here.  

“Steve,” he murmured. 

And like a light switch turning off, Steve’s eyes went from secret underwater lake mystery to sky blue openness. “Glad I could help,” he said briskly (or was it brusquely? There was definitely some gruff there.) “Miss Darlene won’t be holding out on sweet potato pie any time soon.” 

“Yeah,” Sam said. He opened his car door. “Yeah,” he repeated. “Thanks, Steve.” 

Steve shrugged. “What are friends for?” he said and even though his tone was ambiguous at best, bitter at worst, he smiled at Sam so convincingly, Sam smiled back. 

“You’re a great beau,” Sam said before closing the door, wanting to ask how Steve had so expertly rewritten their history together, to ask how he made his eyes go all mesmerizing like that, to ask if maybe they should do something about the frission that had been dormant but was now wide awake and zipping between the two of them like those little metal balls in a pin ball machine. But he didn’t. His mouth would no more form those words than his hands would pull the trigger on a gun at his temple. He watched Steve pull out of the parking space and then walked the few blocks to his apartment to collapse on his couch and drink a couple inches of scotch, the velvety, expensive kind Rhodey had bought him for his birthday last year. And the alcohol certainly didn’t clear Sam’s mind – he had expected nothing of the sort – but it softened the edges of his thoughts a little and dulled the insistent _plink! plink!_ of questions zooming around, careening into his skull. Questions like, _Does Steve really like me or is he just very good at pretend? Did he really think I was asking him on a date New Year’s Eve? And did I keep_ _my invi_ _t_ _ation_ _purposely nebulous because I was kind of hoping it would be one?_ _And did I drink so much that night because it seemed like Steve wasn’t interested when he went off to talk to Bucky for half an hour? And did I end up sleeping with Tisha (perfectly lovely Tisha) because I didn’t want to think about Steve?_ The scotch smoothed the serrated edges of those thoughts so they didn’t rip and shred the pink matter of Sam’s brain, but they still _plink!_ ed off his skull, so it wasn’t possible to entirely ignore them. That would have required a different caliber of alcohol and Sam didn’t think he wanted to drown his thoughts quite that badly.  

“If you don’t want to talk about it…” Monica said, swiping Sam’s strawberry milkshake again. 

“We have some of our own news,” Rhodey finished, beaming down at Monica, who smiled up at him with a smear of milkshake on her chin. Rhodey thumbed it away. 

“Tell me your news,” Sam invited, needing the distraction.  

Monica grinned at him. "I'm pregnant!" she exclaimed. She and Rhodey’s faces were transformed by her announcement. They looked beatific, their usual beauty heightened, sharpened, made to glow with their happiness. 

“Guys!” Sam exclaimed, grabbing both of their hands. “Why’d you let me talk about my nonsense? That’s amazing! Oh my god!” 

Monica sparkled with delight. "We thought with how I got my powers,” she began. 

“We didn’t even think about it that much; we were thinking we’d just adopt.” 

“Which we absolutely still will do. There are lots of children who need parents.” 

“But this little one—” 

“A wonderful surprise—” 

“And we were thinking—” 

“We’ve been wondering—” 

“If you would—” 

“If we could make you—” 

“Their godparent!” 

Sam gaped. “Me?” 

Monica and Rhodey nodded. “Yeah, Sam. We both love you; we both trust you. It should be you.” 

“I’m so…” Sam was embarrassed that he was tearing up, but he saw the same hot shimmer in Monica and Rhodey’s eyes, so he supposed it was okay. “Of course,” he said. “Of course I’ll be a godparent. Thank you!” 

Rhodey smirked. “Guess this means you have to figure things out with Steve,” he said.  

“Or Maharvin,” Monica added.  

Sam frowned, surprised and confused. “What? Why?” 

Monica glanced up at Rhodey and smirked too. (Apparently smirks were contagious). “Well,” she said, “what if something happens to me and James? We’d want our darling angel to go to a nuclear family.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t give two dollars about nuclear families. I distinctly remember you saying that the nuclear family was a white western creation fabricated to malign the traditional family structures of non-white cultures.” 

Monica shrugged. “A+ for listening to one of my rants and remembering,” she conceded. 

“But an F minus for missing the point.” 

“I don’t think they give out F minuses,” Monica said. 

“Well, I give them out,” Rhodey said, “and only to Sam when he’s being thick.” 

“You’re having a baby,” Sam said. “I hardly think you should be thinking about my stupid love life.” 

“Au contraire ma cherie,” Monica trilled. “I can think about more than one thing at once. Right now I’m thinking that Rhodey and I are the luckiest two people on the planet and we’re going to have a baby, but I’m simultaneously thinking that I’d like to see you happy. Like we’re happy.”  

She and Rhodey placed their hands on her stomach and smiled at each other like—well, like they were madly in love and having a baby. If it had been any other couple, Sam might have been nauseated by how love-struck they looked. As it was, he felt cocooned and reassured and inspired by it, by the promise that true love was out there and that happily-ever-afters existed. 

He remembered when Rhodey had come to him four years ago and said that he wanted to ask Monica out, but that he didn’t want things to be weird with him and Sam. And Sam had said, “Why would things be weird?”  

And Rhodey had frowned and said, “You’re not into Monica?” 

Sam shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong: she’s beautiful. Like, really, really beautiful. And she’s great. But Monica does not pull her punches. I think I’d leave that relationship emotionally bloody and bruised.” 

“She _is_ great, isn’t she?” Rhodey said, apparently tuning out the entire last part of Sam’s little speech.  

And Sam saw how bad Rhodey had it for Monica. Rhodey had dated Colonel Danvers for about six months a year before and Sam hadn’t known her particularly well, but she had that same edge that Monica had. That brusque, take-no-prisoners, tell-it-like-is attitude that apparently Rhodey was really into. Carol and Rhodey couldn’t make the long-distance thing work and they’d broken up – not as amicably as Misty and Sam, but pretty darn amicably. (Apparently none of the Avengers knew how to have a proper, bridges-burned break-up.) But even when Carol and Rhodey were together, Sam had never seen Rhodey’s dark eyes light up like the universe when he talked about her. And he hadn’t noticed the twitch to his lips, like he was physically restraining himself from smiling. Nor had he noticed Rhodey’s whole body seeming to thrum on a different frequency when he talked about her. James Rupert Rhodes was already head over heels for Monica and Sam wished him well.  

And he remembered when Monica had called him at one in the morning on a weekday and asked if it’d be weird if she started seeing Rhodey and Sam had laughed and said again, “Why would it be weird?” and Monica had said, “So, you’re not into James?” And Sam said, “No, I’m not into James.”  

“Good,” Monica whispered, “because we’ve just had sex and there’s no putting that genie back in the bottle.”  

Sam had laughed and said congratulations.  

Lucky for him, Monica and Rhodey hadn’t turned into one of those couples who acted like no one else existed. They still got together with Sam on Mondays for dinner; they still had their separate, distinct friendships with Sam; they were, in a word, perfect. And now they were going to have a baby.  

Sam wiped away his tears. “I _am_ happy,” he said and he meant it. His love life might only amount to a fake date with his best friend yesterday, but he was still deeply, profoundly happy with his life. He took Rhodey and Monica’s hands in his. “I am so happy for you two.” 

*** 

“I didn’t know it would just be the two of you,” Sam said, stopping in front of Misty and Danny who were sitting on the bench outside the restaurant. It was Friday night and time for a hang-out session with the uptown gang. 

“Where’s Steve?” Misty asked. She had insisted Sam bring Steve along tonight, since apparently the whole gang had loved bowling with him and were open to including a white dude in the mix. Matt Murdock had been the last white guy to get an invite, but he was too busy wearing a hair shirt and being a complete and total stick in the mud to come along to things. The gang had told Claire a dozen times that she should stop torturing herself being friends with him – especially after she’d done the right thing and cut romantic ties – but they were like magnets to one another and shit between them was always intense. Steve wasn’t likely to bring that kind of drama to the group. If ever he needed to wear a hair shirt, he did so quietly and even his blood was too private to show through his clothes.  

Sam gestured toward the corner of the street where Steve was still fussing with cash to give the taxi driver. (One time a cabbie had casually mentioned that most drivers preferred cash and now Steve went out of his way to pay that way. He was thoughtful like that.)  

“Where’s everybody else?” Sam asked. 

Misty and Danny exchanged looks. Misty tilted her head. “I don’t know. Where is everyone, Danny?” 

Danny pushed his hands through his hair. “Um, Luke is in Harlem. I think one of his little mentees had a mentoring emergency.” 

“A mentoring emergency?” Sam repeated.  

“And Claire and Colleen decided to go to a burlesque show.” 

That sounded more credible than a ‘mentoring emergency.’ “Where’s the show?” he asked, feeling suspicious. “Maybe we should have just gone with them.” 

“It’s _very_ burlesque,” Misty said meaningfully. 

Danny played with the dozens of leather and beaded bracelets on his wrist. “She means there’s full on vaginal visuals.” He shrugged as if to say this was no big thing.  

“We went along last time,” Misty said, shuddering. “I didn’t know how much I didn’t need to see another woman’s coochie until then.” 

“Colleen declared Misty the straightest woman she knew,” Danny added, smiling at Misty as he said this. “Although, even I was a little out of my depth once the women started doing the splits on the swings.” 

“Colleen said that Danny was threatened by the sexual aggression of the women," Misty explained, "because he was still caged by patriarchal values of feminine submission and subtlety.” 

Danny nodded. “It was helpful information. I’ve been reading a lot of feminist texts on the issue.” 

“But I’m still too straight and Danny’s still— 

“Learning,” Danny interrupted. “I fully intend to go back when I’ve escaped the cage of— 

“Patriarchal values of feminine submission and subtlety,” Sam finished, trying and failing to hide his grin.  

“Don’t laugh at him,” Misty said. “Danny’s very sincere.” 

“That’s why I’m laughing,” Sam said. “You _are_ aware that you don’t have to be chill about everything, right? Sometimes you don’t like something and there isn’t anything deeper.” 

Danny twisted one of the necklaces around his neck with a giant, purple crystal thing on it. “Everything has a deeper meaning,” he pronounced in that annoyingly wise way he had sometimes. But then he lightened up and said, “Hey, Steve. Ever been to a burlesque show?” 

Steve arrived at Sam’s elbow, smelling so damn good Sam’s head went a little woozy for a second. “Yeah,” Steve said, answering Danny. “But it wasn’t my cup of tea.” 

“See?” Sam said. 

Steve frowned. “See what?”  

“Shall we go in?” Misty asked. 

Steve put his hand on Sam’s elbow. “Where’s everyone else?” 

“Busy,” Sam, Danny, and Misty all said at once.  

Once the server – a needle thin girl with a dark storm cloud of curls and a whisper-quiet voice – sat them down at their table, Sam said, “Who picked this place anyway? We never do regular sit-down meals.” 

Misty looked at Danny. “Who did pick this place, Danny?” 

Danny shrugged. “It was Claire’s turn to pick.” 

Sam wrinkled his brow. “Claire? Picked a place below 14th Street? I’ve never seen that woman below 42nd.” 

“It was her turn,” Danny said, “Everyone was throwing out suggestions. Who said what may have been lost in the general pell-mell.” 

Misty nodded and Sam eyed her suspiciously, but she stared down at her menu, studiously ignoring him. 

While everyone read through their menus, Sam peered between Danny and Misty, trying to figure out what game they were playing. He was distracted, though, when he noticed that Steve and Danny (who were sitting next to each other across from Sam and Misty) made a beautiful study in contrasts. Danny with his creamy brown skin, large, curved nose and dark, Bambi eyes. His facial hair was somewhere between stubble and a full-on beard, he had a slight build, and he wore a look of complete serenity and calm. Steve, on the other hand, was pale, with a military haircut and clean-shaved chin, his bearing -- if not rigid, a very close cousin to it. Even if he was very pretty, there was a hardness to it, in the stubborn slash of his jaw, the hard planes of his cheekbones. It was a testament to Sam’s broad taste in people that he found them both heartbreakingly beautiful, even if Danny spoke in fortune cookie speak and Steve was – well, Steve.  

“I heard that the bistec tacos are amazing,” Misty said, interrupting Sam’s comparisons.  

“From Claire?” he asked.  

Steve frowned at him and Sam held up his hands to say he’d let it go.  

“Yes,” Misty said snippily. “From Claire. Now, what are we thinking? Two pitchers of sangria?” 

“Misty,” Sam said. “Danny and Steve don’t drink.” 

Misty narrowed her eyes at Sam in a way that was very reminiscent of her I’m-about-to-punch-you face.  

“Two pitchers it is,” he said, signaling to their tiny waitress. 

“So,” Misty said to Steve, “I heard you met Mama Wilson.” 

Steve nodded slowly, as if afraid to be caught giving out wartime secrets. “I did,” he admitted.  

“How many times did she invite you to family events you have no business at?” 

Steve smiled. “She wants me to come to Sam’s nephew’s christening next week.” 

Sam grinned and their eyes met in the dim light and for just a second, it was too hot and too dark and too much, but then the waitress came over with their pitchers and Sam looked away. He poured himself a generous glass and only managed to keep from downing it because Misty raised her glass for a toast. 

“To tacos,” she said. 

“To tacos,” they echoed, Danny and Steve clinking their water glasses against Misty and Sam’s wine.  

The conversation meandered along, lighthearted and easy, as they ate, everyone trading stories about bad guys put away, dating anecdotes (Misty and Sam trying to out-terrible each other and making Steve laugh so hard he choked on his water), and the general kookiness of life in New York. Conversation was more solemn when they talked about the alien attacks that had precipitated the uptick in New York crazy.  

“Finding a way to deal with all that must have been hard,” Danny said. He had been on his journey of self-discovery and cultural reunion in India when the attacks happened. 

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Waking up seventy years in the future fighting aliens.” 

“Coming back from Afghanistan to see that Harlem was a warzone.” 

“Whining about losing my arm and then seeing there was so much more to lose.” 

They sat in solemn communion together remembering that dark day.  

“Do any of you do meditation?” Danny asked. 

Misty and Sam exchanged grins. Danny had been trying to get a meditation buddy out of one of the gang since they’d first met.  

“My therapist recommended it,” Steve admitted, “but I never got into it. My mind doesn’t go quiet that way.” 

Danny nodded. “Meditation is more work than people think. They hear ‘thinking and doing nothing’ but it’s truly exercise for the brain.” He poked Steve’s bicep. “And just like gyming it up, it’s important for peak fitness.” 

Sam sipped his sangria, feeling lovely and soft at the edges, but still present, enjoying Danny’s pitch, although usually he just tuned it out.  

“Come on,” Danny was saying to Steve. “Take a deep breath, close your eyes, try to focus on your breath and when you feel your mind drift away from that, gently and kindly refocus. Don’t beat yourself up for not staying focused. Just come back to your breath.” Danny was turned in his chair to face Steve, who made a _why-not_ _?_ face and closed his eyes. Danny pressed his hands to Steve’s chest and back. “Good posture is all well and good,” he said, “but relax.” 

As Sam watched them, a thought drifted idly to the surface of his mind that he wanted to be the one touching Steve.  

“You have a lot of tension,” Danny said to Steve. “Has anyone ever told you that?” 

 “Might’ve come up,” Steve said with a smile, his eyes still closed.  

“Well, don’t run from any hard feelings you’re having – anger, aggression, discomfort, frustration. You don’t run and you don’t confront. You just breathe and let the feelings happen.” 

“Should we maybe not do this in a public restaurant?” Misty asked, pouring herself another glass of sangria. She and Sam had made short work of both pitchers, despite Sam’s original protest. 

“You’re right,” Danny said. “It’s hard to really focus in such a chaotic space. Let’s go back to my place.” 

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Misty muttered. 

“Danny, you live all the way uptown,” Sam pointed out. 

“So?” 

“Steve and I live in Brooklyn.” 

“I’m okay with it,” Steve said. “I was kinda getting into the meditating.” His eyes seemed to sparkle in the dim light and Sam felt warm and sensitive all over. “Much better than having to talk about all my feelings with Dr. Sundharam.” 

“Excellent pronunciation,” Danny praised and Sam felt a real kick of jealousy that Danny still had his hands on Steve and was giving him compliments that made him smile bashfully. He knew the jealousy came from the wine, but it felt real enough. And Sam wasn’t just going to ‘let the feelings happen.’ He was going to deny them until they slinked away, tail between their legs.  

“We can Uber back if the trains are too bad,” he said. 

“So, this is what we’re doing?” Misty said incredulously. “Going to Danny’s to meditate?” 

*** 

They took a taxi uptown because everyone agreed that taking the train would murder everyone’s just-go-with-it buzz. Steve sat up front and Sam, Misty, and Danny squeezed into the back. It was only a squeeze because Misty insisted on going to the window at the restaurant and ordering more tacos to-go and she set the takeaway on the seat so it wouldn’t be in danger of being crushed. She kept a militant eye on Sam’s thigh lest it brush the bag and ruin what she declared ‘the most perfect tacos in the world.’ 

Danny’s loft was spacious by regular standards and massive by the standards of New York real estate. Although Danny had eschewed his family’s wealth – his dad was a plastic surgeon and his mother was a director of advertising with some big name beauty company – he ‘let’ his parents pay for his apartment because he was, in his own words, ‘not an idiot.’ It was a fairly bare apartment. He slept on a mattress on the floor draped in dozens of fabrics and pillows, but the rest of the space was empty save for candles and a single lotus plant in a cracked jar on a green crate. Sam wondered where he kept all his smoking accoutrements and his truly terrible ponchos, pajama pants, and sandals.  

Danny ushered them all inside and then went to his hall closet and pulled out several large floor rugs. As he arranged the rugs, Sam drifted to the window to look out at the city. Danny had quite a view with his wall-to-wall windows. The lights from the buildings below looked like a NASA photo of a faraway galaxy. Each light represented at least one person and sometimes more, all going about their nights. Bravely, timidly, quietly, raucously, unknown and perhaps unknowable. Sam had forgotten than wine made him mawkish. He touched the pads of his fingers to the glass and wondered who washed away the smudges.  

“You okay?” Steve asked, coming up beside him. His cologne was a light, ocean smell that made Sam think of strong arms pulling ropes and perfect dives off of yachts. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Trying not to run away from or confront this feeling of being drunk.” 

“You’re hiding it very well,” Steve said. He touched his hand to Sam’s elbow again as if to offer him balance. Sam looked up at him to make sure he wasn’t making fun of him. 

“It takes a lot more than sangrias to make me act a fool.” 

“Oh really?” Steve asked, smiling down at him. Sam had never noticed how lovely the curly corners of Steve’s lips were. 

“Yeah,” Sam said shakily. “You’d want to see me with a couple shots of tequila.” 

“Was that what you were drinking on New Year’s?”  

“Yeah, the real expensive ki—” Sam came up short, remembering how Steve had twisted what happened on New Year's last Sunday. "You're not going to make fun of Tisha, are you?" He asked, wanting to ask instead, _You're not really mad that I ran away from our almost date with Tisha, are you?_  

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Steve murmured.  

His hand was still on Sam’s elbow and it was like a current was going between them. Sam touched his hand to Steve’s arm to right the imbalance, to give the current a two-way highway. His neck prickled with heat and it felt like he couldn’t possibly look away from Steve, like it would require transgressing all the laws of physics to tear their eyes apart.  

Once, while Sam was on his second tour in Afghanistan, a dry thunderstorm swept through the desert– just the thunder and lightning and the charged, unbearable anticipation of rain that wouldn’t come. He and Riley had laid out on a tarp and watched the lightning forks, the tendrils of light so stark against the dark sky that they looked like someone had drawn them with a white pen. He and Riley had been desperate for rain, desperate for one drop of moisture in the aridity that seemed to suck at their eyes and mouth, to flake their skin and chap their lips. But the rain hadn’t come, only the electric expectation. Sam hadn’t thought he’d feel anything like that again – certainly not standing in Danny Rand’s apartment in uptown Manhattan staring at Steve. The wonder and awe and frustration and need were all there, but if it wasn’t rain he wanted, what was it? 

“All set up,” Danny said, appearing at Sam and Steve’s side and breaking the spell. Sam blinked slowly, feeling dazed.  

Danny took them to sit on the carpets he’d arranged on the floor. He’d also lit candles around them so it looked a little like a séance. Sam sat beside Misty, who raised her eyebrows at him. He shrugged and tried to force his legs into the pretzel that Danny had assumed with practiced ease.  

“Sit however you’re comfortable. I usually lie down, but for less trained minds, it’s an invitation to fall asleep.” 

Misty yawned. “It is awfully dim in here, Danny.” 

“Bright lights aren’t restful or calming. They stimulate you too much, which is the opposite of meditation.” 

“Okay,” she said dubiously.  

“I can meditate for hours because I’ve trained to do it, but for you beginners, let’s see if we can get up to five minutes tonight.” 

Sam nodded. Five minutes didn’t seem so bad. It probably didn’t make the journey up and then back downtown worth it, but that hardly mattered.  

“Focus on your breathing. Really concentrate on every sensation. The lift of your diaphragm, the expansion of your ribs, the whoosh through your nostrils. Concentrate and be mindful.” 

Danny’s voice was ever so slightly drowsy-making combined with the alcohol and Sam felt himself sway a little. The floor was still hard even with the rugs and Sam could already feel the beginnings of a sore butt. Why didn’t Danny have furniture like a regular person? All his spiritualism was fine and good, but his asceticism seemed more masochistic than enlightened. It wasn’t like Sam was a horrible person because he’d bought a lovely sofa from Ashley Furniture or a nice, big sleigh bed from Crate and Barrel. He loved Crate and Barrel. Their prices were high, but the quality was top notch. When his PTSD had been at its worst, furniture store websites had been oddly calming. Sam would read all the descriptions of handcrafted this and from-the-forests-of-the-Amazon that and his panic spirals would slowly abate until he could get up and splash his face with water and try not to look so haggard.  

“That was thirty seconds,” Danny said. “How did everyone do?” 

“That felt like forever,” Misty said. 

“I got distracted,” Sam added. “I don’t think I thought about my breath for one second.” 

“I liked it,” Steve said.  

Misty and Sam both glowered at Steve. 

Danny stood up. “How about we try something slightly different since we have two very resistant parties?” 

“I’m not resistant,” Misty exclaimed. “I’m just not good at it yet.” 

Danny smiled. “I’m not giving up on you, babe. We’re just trying something else. I’m going to sit with my back to yours and you’re going to try to concentrate on _my_ breathing. It’s easier to concentrate on something outside yourself sometimes.” 

“Back to back?” Misty repeated. 

“Well, when I learned it, it was front to back, but I figured maybe that would be—” 

“Either way is fine by me,” Misty said. “Back to front is cool. If that’s how you learned it.” 

Danny pushed his hand through his glossy, dark hair. “Okay, Sam, Steve, do what Misty and I do.” He sat down and spread his legs and Misty scooted back until she was bracketed by his thighs. “Lean back,” he said softly. Sam watched Misty’s face as she closed the distance between her back and Danny’s chest – apprehensive, interested, happy. He glanced at Danny and saw very similar emotions playing out across his face. Just what the hell was going on here? 

“Sam?” Steve said, gesturing to Sam. “Do you want front or back,” he asked. 

Sam mouth was punishingly dry. “I need—” he rasped. “Give me a second.” He got jerkily to his feet and rushed to the bathroom. He turned the faucet on full power and slurped from his hands, splashing water down the front of his shirt in the process.  

He didn’t know what had just come over him. So what? He liked Steve again. And Misty and Danny definitely liked each other. What was wrong with that? Why did he feel so panicked at the prospect of being in Steve’s arms to do something as harmless as meditate? “This is fine,” he said out loud to his reflection. He wasn’t in high school anymore, too nervous to kiss Ashley Gilkerson so he’d faked sick and gone home from the birthday party. He was an adult who liked another adult. He gripped the sides of the sink and stared at his reflection. “This is fine.” 

“Steve thought you were sick,” Misty said, startling Sam as she appeared in the mirror with him. “But I convinced him to let me check on you because I know you a lot better than I get credit for.” 

Sam wiped his lips. “What do you want, Misty?”  

“You to stop freaking out.” 

“You’re too late. I already talked myself down.” Sam smiled wryly. 

“Come on back to the living room then.” Misty turned away, but Sam caught her by her bionic arm.  

“Misty, where are Claire and the others, really?” 

Misty rolled her eyes. “Claire and Colleen are at a burlesque show. Luke is—well, he’s probably done mentoring, so he’s in Harlem at his house probably.” 

“And are they at those places because they wanted to be a those places or because you shooed them away?.” 

Misty rolled her eyes and pulled her arm out of Sam’s grip. “I didn’t send anyone away, Sam.” She brought her thumb up to her mouth and worried at the nail without biting. It was her tell, Sam remembered. “Danny and I are trying to….trying to see if there’s something between us and that’s been hard to do with the whole group. But there’s a lot of pressure in a one-on-one situation and double dates can get weird, if one couple is really established and the other one isn’t, so Claire suggested that we do something with you and Steve, since you’re also trying to—you know…figure it out.” 

Sam frowned. “Steve and I are only pretending, Misty.” 

“If you say so.” 

“I’m serious,” Sam insisted. “We’re not…we’re not like you and Danny.” 

“What does it matter?” Misty asked. “Just come into the living room then and pretend-date Steve on this real double date and stop being a big baby.” 

“I’m not a baby,” Sam muttered.  

“Good, then act like it. Go meditate with Steve like a grown-up.” And she pushed Sam out of the bathroom. 

“Are you okay?” Steve asked when Misty and Sam came back into the room.  

Sam nodded. “A whole pitcher of sangria in my bladder,” he explained. 

Steve smiled.  

Sam dropped down between Steve's legs and slid back until he could feel his body heat. “I’ll be in front,” he offered. 

Misty laughed. “Sam always has liked being the little spoon,” she teased.  

Sam threw a murderous look at her that she chose to ignore by closing her eyes and taking an exaggeratedly deep breath. 

Steve put his hands on Sam’s shoulder. “Ready?” he asked. 

Sam nodded and leaned back. “Yeah,” he said, feeling exactly the way he felt the first time he dived off a high cliff with his wings. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. I thought this was a two-parter, but it is turning into a three-chapter situation. Bear with me. I had/have a vague plan of how I wanted it to end and we didn't get there yet.


	3. Popcorn, Lemonade, and Deviled Eggs

"I forgot I asked you to help with this," Sam said apologetically as Steve lifted the cellophane-wrapped slate top of Sam's new dining room table by himself. Sam and the girl who had sold him the piece were holding a single leg of the table between them and Sam didn't want to admit it, but the thing was really fucking heavy. Steve pushed the slab of slate into the moving truck and then gestured for Sam and the girl (her name on Craiglist was Roman, but Sam couldn't figure out if that was a nickname or not) to give him the leg. Steve slung it into the truck like it weighed as much as a pillow. He wasn't even breaking a sweat even though it was one of those last summer days in Brooklyn that showed out and turned blisteringly hot and steaming before noon.  

While Steve waited for Sam and Roman to roll the next leg off the trolley, he stretched his arms, pushing each elbow toward its opposite shoulder. The seams of his shirt strained audibly, but Sam kept his head down. It wouldn't do to ogle Steve right now. It was weird enough after last night. Between the meditation and that damn car ride...Nope, not gonna think about it. Sam grimaced as he lifted the second leg into Steve's arms.  

"How much can you lift?" Roman asked, holding her hand over her dark, smudged eyes and staring Steve enough for both herself and Sam. She wasn't exactly the sort of girl Sam had expected to be selling a one-of-a-kind table like this – it had probably cost upwards of a thousand dollars originally and Sam had imagined it  belonged to some reclusive artist who'd sold one fantastic canvas in the 90s and never met that promise again. Roman was one of those ageless people who could have been a youthful 40 or a hard lived 20. She had a round, doughy face, pockmarked with acne scars that her caked on foundation couldn't really conceal, a small rosebud mouth, and tons of eyeliner. She was weirdly sexy, actually, like she had broken a lot of hearts just in the last week.  

Steve shrugged at her question. "Haven't really done any weight lifting tournaments lately." 

Roman narrowed her eyes. "You getting smart with me?" she asked, and Sam couldn't tell if she was offended, impressed, or just genuinely curious.  

Steve ducked his head bashfully. "No, ma'am," he said.  

Roman rolled her eyes but she was obviously charmed by that oh-gosh act. "Don't call me ma'am," she said. "My mama's a ma'am. Least she would be if she was alive. That's her table, by the way. Loved that thing to pieces. Even when she had to sell the place in Manhattan, she held on to that table. My friends say you're robbing me." She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a used cigarette that had her plummy-brown lipstick around its tip. She relit it and took a deep pull. "But I figure, the Falcon and the Captain get the superheroes' discount. You guys have probably thwarted a lot of evil I don't even know about, being a civilian who's pathologically incapable of reading a news headline." She smiled so her dimples showed.  

"You don't get the news?" Steve asked, hauling the third leg into the truck all by himself. 

"Too depressing," Roman said. She blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth, tilting it down and away from Sam and Steve. Sam didn't know why but that small courtesy touched him, made him feel very tender toward her. "I'm a bit off in the head sometimes and those headlines can do me in if I'm not careful."  

Steve and Sam nodded. They'd both been through that before – being too sensitive to the outside world's ugliness. It was one of those hideous symptoms of depression.  

"If you ever need to talk to someone," Sam offered, "about being a bit off, you've got my number now." 

Roman flicked her cigarette away. "I'm sure you've got more important things to do, people to talk to." 

Sam shook his head. "Definitely not. Do I, Steve?" 

Steve finished setting the last leg into the truck. "More important than Roman?" he asked incredulously. "Impossible." 

Roman rolled her eyes again, but she grinned. "You two are a class act, you know that?" 

On the car ride back to Sam's, Steve hummed along to the radio – some song on the top 40 list; Steve kept up to date with music way better than Sam. At a stop light, he turned to Sam and said, "That was really nice. You just offering to talk with her like that." 

"Force of habit," Sam said dismissively.  

"Still," Steve insisted. "I don't say it enough. You're always offering yourself like that."  

Sam leaned his head against the car window. "We all do what we can." 

Steve laughed. "You're determined not to have this compliment, aren't you?" 

Sam glanced over at him. Steve was smiling and relaxed, all the tension from the last few times they'd been together having evaporated. Maybe Steve had meditated this morning like Danny had suggested they all do. Sam had tried. He really had. He'd even lit a candle by his bed. (Where did the scented candles come from? Had Misty left them behind? Were they that gift people gave you when they didn't know you well enough to get you something you really wanted? Sam half suspected that he'd gone out to a Yankee Candle store, drugged and confused in the middle of some pill-induced fugue back when he was still suffering from nightmares more often than not, and purchased candles with names like Winter Lemon, Cucumber Verbena, and Summer Lace out of some deeply buried instinct to give himself nice things.) But the candle had been a lavender chamomile thing and Sam had simply fallen back asleep, woken up half an hour later when Steve rang his doorbell.  

Sam had forgotten that he'd arranged to pick up his beautiful new dining room table today with Steve's help. But Steve was there bright and early, clearly having come straight from a jog. He was in one of his Doing The Most tees and a pair of black basketball shorts and his face was all glowy like he belonged in one of those skin care commercials that were always undermining girls' self-esteem.  

"Thanks for helping me move the table," Sam said. "That's way nicer than just offering to talk to someone. That thing was heavy." 

Steve flicked a look at him, seeming to size him up. He fiddled with the volume dial on the dash. "I know it's cheesy," he said, "but I love this song." 

A woman's voice filled the car with maudlin love words, violins and piano interweaving and swelling behind her admittedly impressive vocals. It was the song Sam and Steve had danced to at Bucky and Nat's anniversary party. Sam wondered if Steve remembered.  

"Her stuff is all this sad," Steve said conversationally. "Every single album. And I know she didn't write the songs, but you have to wonder if all her relationships were this painful and heartbreaking." 

"She's married," Sam said, remembering this detail from the cover of a magazine he'd read while waiting in line at the supermarket a few months ago. "To that guy who produces all those songs. The ones that sound like dun-dun-doop, dun-dun-doop. Every single one of them, with a different melody over top." 

"Well, that's good," Steve said. "If she's just pretending to be this screwed over by her boyfriends." 

Sam smiled. Steve _would_ worry about the love life of some pop star he'd never met. "Speaking of pretending," he said, holding his hands still in his lap so he wouldn't rap his fingers against the glove compartment or start fiddling with any buttons, "I told my mama that you couldn't make it tomorrow. Got you a 'Get of Jail Free Card'." He stared out at the milky blue sky as he spoke. 

"You didn't have to do that," Steve said, his voice so neutral it was like he hadn't really spoken at all. "I didn't mind going." 

Sam shrugged. "You're too nice to mind, but you've been stuck with me all weekend. You probably need some you-time. And my mama. She can be a bit much. Especially if she likes you." 

Steve narrowed his eyes. "Last week she loved me. What did I do to go down in her estimation? Did you malign my good name, Sam?" 

Sam laughed, relieved that Steve wasn't annoyed with him for cancelling. "I might have mentioned that you said your family was more of a pumpkin pie family than a sweet potato." 

Steve winced. "I don't think I can come back from that. How ever will I win her heart back to mine?" 

"Well," Sam said, "you should definitely _never_ mention that you verbally berate me when we work out together. Or that you shop in the kids sections for your shirts." 

Steve batted Sam's arm. "You've got to stop telling people that. I had to deny it on national television a few weeks ago. One of the top morning journalists of all time asked me if I bought my shirts at the Baby Gap and I blame you." 

Sam laughed. "I'll stop saying it when it stops being true." 

Steve shook his head. "What do you say we make up for our missed movie nights and watch something this afternoon?" 

Sam just barely stopped himself from saying "Really?" He'd thought Steve would be good and done with him for a few days. Plus, Sam had a ton of errands to run that he'd put off entirely too long, mailing some packages, calling his brother, dropping off a bunch of donations to his mama's church in Crown Heights. But he didn't really want to do any of that. He wanted to watch the Matrix Trilogy with Steve and discuss some more of the fan theories for the ending.  

"Okay," he said, "but you have to go down to the corner and get popcorn. I think you finished the box last time you were here." 

*** 

Sam's loveseat could comfortably sit three people if they didn't mind a little bit of touching. He, Rhodey, and Monica had sat on this couch draped across each other many times. So had he and Claire and Colleen that one time the girls had deigned to leave Manhattan to visit him. They'd watched _Black Swan_ and Colleen had taken them through all the feminist and queer theory analysis of the film and scoffed when Sam's only contribution to film criticism was to say that the mom really freaked him out and that one of the guys at the bar looked a lot like Bucky if he laid off the eyeliner, push-ups, and his aversion to barber shops.   

Sam and Steve had also sat on this couch many times, and you didn't hang out for years and years together without completely trampling the laws of personal space. Or at least, Sam and Steve hadn't. Within a month of being on the road trip to find Bucky, they were smushed up against each other like they'd known each other their whole lives. It was nice: their friendship had been fast tracked by events outside their control, but Sam liked to think they would have reached astronomical levels of intimacy even if they hadn't shared motel rooms and a tiny car for a little over seven months.  

When they watched movies together, they usually left about a hand's breadth between them that could easily disappear if they were watching something scary and Sam buried his face in Steve's shoulder or if they were watching that godawful Superman movie with the scowly actor and Steve fell asleep and pinned Sam to the arm of the chair with the full weight of his super soldier body. When he'd woken up, he'd looked so drowsy and sweet – like a golden retriever puppy – and he'd apologized and Sam had shot up and said, "I had to pee for the last twenty minutes but I couldn't get your heavy body off me." What he meant was, "I've had to pee for the last twenty minutes but you looked so stupid adorable, I couldn't be bothered to wake you."  

But Sam didn't want to sit too close to Steve today. And not because he was worried Steve would fall asleep on him. Steve loved the Matrix Trilogy, even after the rapid and dramatic decline in quality with the sequels. Sam just didn't want a repeat of last night in the taxi or the subway. His nerves were shot, singed, completely, irrevocably done. They had given up the ghost.  

After Sam and Steve had finished meditating at Danny's– during which Sam was mortifyingly aware of Steve's warm, muscled body breathing behind him and not in a way that made meditation possible – Steve and Sam had shared a taxi back into Brooklyn, but traffic was so ridiculously bad, they probably would have been smarter to take subway. Which Sam pointed out. 

Steve, who had been staring out the window for the last ten minutes of inching down Fifth, turned to Sam, looking curiously serene. "I don't mind being here," he said. He smiled and Sam tried not to be flustered.  

"Listen," he began, "about before..." 

Steve shook his head. "It's fine, Sam. It really is." Again with the serenity. The guy meditated one night and suddenly he was unflappable.  

Sam sighed. He wasn't romantically brave at the best of times and there was something very unapproachable about Steve's calm. Like he had come to some decision that wasn't going to change no matter what Sam said.  

"I guess I'm glad to be here too," he said, daring as much as he could.  

"Remember that time we took the train to the Bronx?" Steve said.  

Sam nodded. "Bagpiper, magician, pole dancers, and two shouting homeless guys." 

"You forgot the guy who was masturbating behind his backpack." 

Sam groaned. "Repressed, more like." 

"Sorry to bring it up," Steve said, but he grinned like he wasn't remotely sorry.  

The car lurched forward three feet and Sam placed his hand on the seat to steady himself and suddenly, there was barely a hair's width between his pinkie finger and Steve's. He knew it was sensorily impossible, but he thought he could feel the heat coming off Steve's hand. He could certainly feel the frission from before. It leapt into the car like an electrical storm and when Sam stole a glance at Steve, Steve didn't look quite so serene anymore. His jaw was held tight and his shoulders had shot up to his ears. If Sam weren't feeling _exactly_ as tense, he might have thrown out one of Danny's silly aphorisms about a relaxed body, relaxed soul. But relaxation was about as likely as suddenly spouting a sword out of his chest.  

And Sam took it as a sign that he should just say something. Just put it out there. _I like you._ It wasn't that hard. _I. Like. You._ There was no chance in hell he was hiding this crush very well and unless Steve was just a big, old, cruel tease, Steve liked him, too. So, why was it still so hard to open his mouth and say something. Or move his hand that nanometer over and touch Steve's hand, find some relief from this electric anticipation. The hairs on his arms were standing up and when he looked down at his hand, it seemed to glow bright white-blue, like Thor or Ororo's lightning. His tongue was clumsy and thick in his mouth, but he was determined to speak. He'd done it before. He'd admitted his feelings for Riley and they'd had two glorious months of being together. He'd asked out Maharvin and they had their summer of happiness. Misty had asked him out before he'd gathered his nerve, but that had gone splendidly, too, even though they hadn't gone the distance.  

And the worst that could happen if he touched Steve's hand, if he said, "Let's not pretend anymore; let's do this," was Steve saying, "Oh, no thank you," and Sam would suffer through the worst embarrassment of his life and then he'd move on. They would move on. If Sam had managed to stay friends with Misty, while Steve had managed the same with Bucky and Nat, there was no reason their friendship couldn't bounce back from one unreciprocated confession of 'like.' It wasn't even love. Well, there _was_ love there, but it would be ridiculous to turn to Steve and say, 'I love you.' That could blow up in Sam's face a multitude of ways far more dire than mere embarrassment. 

Traffic was finally loosening up and the streetlights and store signs were casting everything into flickering shadow and color as the taxi glided through the bright city night. 

Sam had to act before he talked himself out of it entirely. "Steve, I have to tell you something," he said. His heart was pounding at the base of his throat and he was two seconds from throwing up all his lovely tacos.  

Steve inclined his head and his gaze raked across Sam like a physical sensation.  

"I think we—I mean, I think I--" But the rest of his admittedly piss-poor declaration was swallowed by the _sc_ _r_ _ee_ _c_ _h_ of tires and then a colossal _b_ _oom_! 

Sam threw his hands in front of him to keep from flying into the glass and he felt his wrists whinge in protest. But at least they didn't snap or anything. Sam knew better than to catch his fall like that. It was what they learned first day of flight training. He winced and shook his hand. His wrist throbbed faintly, but the hurt was small enough that he knew it was inconsequential.  

"Is everyone okay?" their cab driver asked, turning  around in his seat. 

Sam glanced over at Steve and Steve raised his eyebrows. Sam nodded.  

"We're fine," Steve said. He craned his neck to see past the passenger headrest. Sam could see that the car in front of them had knocked into a delivery boy on a bike. The kid had gone flying and hit a parked van and now was woozily trying to stand. Steve put his hand on his door handle and Sam grabbed his wrist.  

"If Captain America goes out to help, it'll take twice as long to resolve." Sam nodded at the crowd of pedestrians who were coming off the sidewalk to help. "They got this." 

Steve looked like he wanted to argue – his default setting, probably – but then he must have done some mental calculations and realized Sam was right, because he deflated and nodded. "Yeah, okay."  

Sam let go of his wrist. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and rapped on the glass partition. "Hey, can you let us out here?" he asked. To Steve, he saiad, "I think it's probably faster to risk the train." 

Sam pulled out a fistful of crumpled bills and pushed them through the little slot in the partition.  

"Your receipt," the cab driver said, pushing the white paper back at him.  

Sam and Steve got out and looked around. They were at 7th Street and 6th, a few blocks from the train. Sam nodded in the direction they needed to go. 

"Do you think that kid's alright?" Steve asked.  

Sam nodded. "Traffic wasn't going too fast and he wasn't knocked out. _And_ he was the first kid I've seen wearing helmet since the invention of the damn things." 

They passed by clumps of young people just starting their nights, tottering on high, spindly heels or trying to walk in jeans that doubled as compression pants. They were beautiful and glittering the way all young people are beautiful and glittering, even though they couldn't see it themselves and wasted their youth being terrified. Sam remembered being that age, back when he was still a massive asshole running with the wrong people.  

The train car Steve and Sam stepped into was mostly empty: an Asian couple down at the other end, an older woman in a dark green hijab, and a black kid with a high top fade and bright red Jordans. Sam sat down in an orange seat in the corner and Steve dropped into the spot perpendicular to him. He flashed a smile at Sam. 

"What were you going to say?" he asked. "Before the kid." 

"Oh yeah," Sam murmured. He swallowed thickly. "I—um." He took a deep breath, accepted that he'd lost his nerve. "I didn't know it was a double date. Back there. With Misty. I, um, didn't know or I would've, you know, I would have..."  

"That's what you were so antsy to tell me?" Steve tilted his head, a slight dubious smile playing on his lips. 

"I'm not antsy," Sam lied. 

Steve nodded at Sam's hands and Sam looked down to see that he was tearing the taxi receipt into tiny pieces, little scraps falling on the subway floor.  

"You always do that when you're stressed," he said. "I found pieces of wrapping paper all over your apartment when Gideon stayed last Christmas." 

Sam blanched at his brother's name. "Just ready to be at home, I guess." 

"I don't think you did the meditation right," Steve teased. "You're supposed to be relaxed." 

Sam snorted. "Are you relaxed?"  

Steve gazed at Sam and the lights flickered in the train car. Or else, Sam's vision went a little wobbly at the intensity in Steve's look. It was like Steve's eyes were a stormy ocean and Sam was in a leaky canoe without a paddle or a radio or anything, destined to drown, but fighting anyway. Even though it was dumb to fight, even though it made no sense because the rescue boats weren't coming. There was only the deep blue.  "I'm relaxed," Steve said. "Sure." 

They didn't speak for the rest of the train ride but the _bzzzt_  was so intense, Sam expected to look down and see energy crackling between them. He thought at least one passenger might say, _Doesn't it smell a bit like ozone in here?_ Or _Must be a storm coming on._ But no one seemed to notice them.  

And Steve might have _said_ he was relaxed, but Sam could see the veins on his arms in stark relief and his fists and jaw were clenched.  

Steve got off at Sam's stop and walked him to the gate in front of his apartment building.  

"It was a bit unorthodox," he said, "but I had fun." 

"They like you," Sam said. "Not just Danny and Misty. The whole crowd." 

Steve grinned. "You guys talk about me?" he teased. 

"Yeah, we're looking to fill our white boy vacancy." 

"It's an honor just to be nominated," Steve said. He rubbed Sam's shoulder. "Put in a good word for me. I think Colleen might be gunning for me." ... 

Which reminded Sam. He pressed pause on Matrix Reloaded (they were at Steve's favorite part when Neo flew through the city so fast, cars were slamming into buildings, so he could catch Trinity and save her; Steve was a big, gushy romantic like that). Sam turned to Steve, careful to keep a proper distance between them. "Colleen's having a birthday party this Friday. The gang wants you there." 

Steve looked at Sam shrewdly, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. "Okay," he said, "as long as the gang wants me ."  

Sam twisted the care instruction tag on the decorative pillow in his lap. "They do," he insisted. He pressed play on the movie and pretended to pay attention, although the chasm of space between him and Steve taunted him, said, _All you have do is jump. You'll make it across._  

*** 

"So, you met Steve," Misty said at brunch the next day, stirring the lemonade in the pitcher and smirking. 

 Sam kicked her under the table and she kicked him right back. 

"Sure did," Sam's mama said. She set the plate of bacon on the table and fussed with one of the flowers on the bouquet Sam had sent (peonies, thistles, and roses). "Nice white boy. Had manners. Told me how foolish my son was, almost letting him get away." 

Misty poured herself a glass. "That certainly would have been foolish. Isn't that right, Sam?" 

Sam kicked her again, even though he knew it wouldn't do a lick of good and that she had played soccer in college. If they kept at it, they'd both be hobbling out of here. 

Sam's mama sat at the head of the table. "Misty, why don't you say grace?" 

"Yes, ma'am," Misty said. She reached for Sam's hand and he had a childish urge to refuse to take hers, but it would only delay things. "Lord, thank you for bringing us together again. Thank you for taking us through another week of trials and extending your mercy to us. Thank you for Miss Darlene, who out of the goodness of her heart, generously provides this meal today. And thank you, Lord, for Sam. May you give him bravery. In your mighty name, we pray. Amen" 

"Amen." 

When Sam opened his eyes, Misty stuck her tongue out. Both he and Misty were agnostic non-believers, but that wasn't something you could really be in Mama Wilson's house, she who went to the 8 o'clock service every Sunday and was a revered mother of the church. Mama Wilson used to press gang Misty and Sam into going to church with her when they were dating so the Lord could bless the union and keep them from temptation. They had humored her, but more often than not, they weren't kept from temptation and had lazy Sunday sex the minute church let out. And Mama Wilson probably knew it, but Sam didn't fault her for trying. Gideon and Sarah hadn't been 'wait until marriage' sorts either. 

"What do you think of them?" Misty asked Sam's mama. "Do they seem like a bonafide couple to you?" 

"Misty," Sam warned.  

"I only ask, Miss Darlene, because I've known them as friends for so long, it's hard to make the adjustment." 

Mama Wilson finished her bite of waffle. "That Steve seems to know my Sammy through and through and still wants to be with him. Can't ask for more than that." 

"No you can't," Misty said, smirking at Sam. 

"I'm glad Sammy's not just gonna be kissing weather girls and dying alone. Sarah and I were just talking about how worried we were for him. Since y'all broke up, he hasn't had a single lasting thing. He brought that lovely fella around here once. The nice brown one with the Bambi eyes." 

"Maharvin," Sam supplied miserably. 

"But I'm convinced Sammy fell for him because he knew the boy wasn't gonna stick around. Sammy always has been bad at relationships. Since that girl in elementary school. Remember, Sammy? You liked her so you came home, crying, and said you couldn't go to school anymore because you were in love. He get's that nonsense from his daddy is what I told Steve. Always second-guessing and tiptoeing and turning back and running away. It's a wonder he's not still living with me, tinkering away in the basement on one of those websites. You know the ones. They were on the news just last week. Young men that can't find a girlfriend – sorry, a partner – go on these websites and--" 

"Misty's dating Danny," Sam blurted out – alright, _tattled._ But desperate times.  

"I am not!" Misty roared. "We're just—we're not—shut up, Sam!" 

Sam grabbed his mama's wrist the better to have her attention and launched into it: "Steve and I had a double date with Misty and Danny Friday and Misty was all over him. She drank an entire pitcher of sangria and then was practically in his lap the rest of the night. And I swear, when me and Steve left, Misty didn't take a cab to her place. She said that Danny was going to 'walk her home'. But that didn't fool me, Mama. They are totally dating." 

Mama Wilson tsked. "Mercedes, don't tell me you went and picked up a man because Sam has one." 

Misty spluttered and Sam didn't even bother to hide his grin.  

"I told Monica when that James fella proposed after they were together – what was it, Sammy? Three months? Six? -- after only six months that if it was real, wasn't no need to rush it. Of course, Monica didn't listen to me because Monica doesn't listen to anybody, but it's a good piece of advice. Don't rush it. Especially not to compete with Sam. You're a young, beautiful woman and I don't want you diving into a relationship because your ex has someone new and shiny. It's not fair to this Danny person and it's not fair to you." 

"Miss Darlene," Misty said, but Mama Wilson kept going. 

"Don't ever compare what you have to what someone else has. You and Sam say you're good and over each other, that means it don't matter that he and Steve are happy. That shouldn't drive you into the arms of just any old man." 

"Mama," Misty tried again. 

"Take it slow," she continued as if Misty weren't desperately trying to get a word in. "That's my advice. Except you, Sammy. I'm gonna give you the opposite advice or your horse will never get out the gate. Run, boy. Run after Steve when you have to. "  

And with that Mama Wilson tucked into her omelet, leaving Sam and Misty to make glowering faces at each other.  

"You can't actually kill me with a glare," Sam said as Misty drove him back to his apartment. "And besides, you started it." 

Misty smiled hard and bright. "And I'm gonna finish it," she promised and the way she said it told Sam it wasn't an idle threat. Misty had a overdeveloped sense of vengeance, as the saying went.  

*** 

Sam and Steve arrived at Colleen's party together a little after nine (which had vexed Steve, who liked to arrive exactly when parties started and didn't understand that when Colleen said 8:30, she meant 9:30 so they were still technically early.) Just as Sam had assured Steve, only a handful of people were here so far – the Uptown Gang plus Foggy, Matt, and Karen. Claire joked sotte voce that this was probably the most white people that had ever been in Colleen's house.  

"I'm not doing the whole open-all-the-gifts-at-once thing," Colleen declared. "It's performative and voyeuristic. So, I'm just gonna open them as the mood strikes me." She looked at Steve. "Your present is nice and big. Hand it over." She beckoned imperiously.  

Steve looked at Sam and Sam shrugged. Steve handed over the box (clearly wrapped by Steve with all it's odd bulges and clumsy seams of tape). Colleen grimaced at its weight. She peered at Steve suspiciously, before slicing the wrapping paper with an olive green nail.  

"It's engraved," Steve said, smirking. 

"Steven," Colleen cooed. "Isn't engraving a third-date sort of thing?" She pulled back the flaps of the box and looked inside. Her flirty smile turned to a scowl and the group all converged to peer into the box. All except Steve.  

It was a wine red bowling ball and scratched into it were the words: **Steve is a better bowler than me**. It had been clearly been scratched in by Steve with an Exacto knife or a strong ball-point pen and everyone got a good laugh out of it. Except Colleen, who howled with the injustice of it all, and demanded a rematch right then.   

Claire and Luke managed to talk her down, but she threw several dark looks at Steve that made Sam take a few steps away from him. Sam didn't want to get caught in any blasts.  

"Someone give me something nice," Colleen demanded. "The Captain has upset me." 

Misty gave Colleen a bottle of expensive perfume and Danny – who didn't believe in giving material tokens of affection – offered to sing a devotional hymn with Colleen (which she politely declined and said a hug would suffice). More people arrived – Monica and Rhodey, Amadeus Cho, a group of glamorous women who Colleen greeted as 'my lesbitches!'. Soon Colleen's tiny closet of an apartment was stuffed to the brim with people, whom Colleen flitted among, sipping champagne and demanding her presents. When she found Sam and Monica in the kitchen talking about how deviled eggs were a chef's con, she stuck out her hand and said, "Sam, you're responsible for Steve. So you better have gotten me something lovely to make up for him." 

Sam grinned and pulled a small package out of his blazer pocket. Colleen shook it next to her ear. "Sounds awful quiet in there," she said. She ripped the paper away, opened the box, and shrieked. Monica, surprised, dropped her glass, which exploded on the tile floor, splashing ginger ale everywhere.  

Colleen didn't seem to notice as she pulled out the scarf Sam had bought her. She had pointed it out to Sam a few months ago when they were walking down Fifth together, scorning all the expensive things in the windows. But when she'd seen the scarf draped over a snobby-looking mannequin's neck, actual tears had appeared in her eyes. Sam smiled as Colleen freaked out some more, calling it the most perfect thing she'd ever received and then in the next breath, whisper-shrieking that they could never, ever let Danny know how much it cost or they would be in for a day-long lecture on the evils of capitalism and she already knew capitalism was evil but PRETTY!!!! 

Monica smiled bemusedly and thanked Sam for cleaning up the glass and ginger ale for her. Sam stood up with a dustpan full of glass glitter and bumped into Steve.  

"You didn't tell me your mother was going to be here," he said. 

Sam frowned. "She's not." 

Steve jerked his thumb in the direction of the living room and Sam saw his mama in her Sunday best, a heather gray suit with matching hat and a sparkling swan brooch on her shoulder, being helped to a seat in one of Colleen's small, poky chairs. Sam gaped.  

"Does she even know Colleen?" Monica asked. 

Sam shook his head, but just then Misty looked up from attending to Mama Wilson and she flashed Sam a bright smile and he understood. She had engineered this. She had convinced Sam's mama to come all the way across the bridge and up the entire island of Manhattan. On what pretext? he wondered. 

Steve touched Sam's hip. "I guess we have to pretend again," he said. 

Monica twirled one of her dreads in her fingers. "There are other options," she said, patting Sam's shoulder. "Just so you know." She left the kitchen with a paper cup of ginger ale.   

"It's fine," Sam said to Steve. "My mama doesn't expect us to have sex on the coffee table to prove ourselves." 

Steve laugh. "The coffee table is much too small. It would have to be the floor." 

"I'm too old for floor sex," Sam said. 

"It's okay," Steve laughed. "I can be on the floor. You can be on top." 

Sam ducked his head and chewed his lip. 

"Sorry," Steve said. "I didn't mean--" 

Sam shook his head. "I was just, you know, considering the logistics of that." He looked Steve up and down, trying not to look as panicked as he felt. 

"Well, lucky us, Miss Darlene isn't expecting us to have sex on the floor to prove ourselves," Steve said carefully.  

"When we go out there," Sam said, "stick close to me. And don't look at that conniving devil, Misty, if you can help it. She thinks she's won." 

Steve shrugged. "You and Misty have a very weird relationship, you know that?" 

Sam nodded. "She's getting back at me for telling my mama about Danny prematurely. It's just like her to up the stakes a zillion levels. Did I ever tell you the time I beat her at Scrabble by twenty points and she went around reading a dictionary for a week and then bet me three hundred dollars that she would win by 100 ?" 

"Did she?" 

"That bracelet she always wears was $269 plus tax. I don't think she'll point-blank rat us out to my mom, but you never know with her, so we have to be extra careful. One slip up and--" 

Steve kissed Sam, shocking him so much he would have swallowed his own tongue if it wasn't firmly anchored. And it was a real, proper kiss. Soft and gentle and lovely and Sam melted into it like a chocolate chip in an oven and he dropped the dustpan full of glass so he could fist his hands in Steve's shirt. Steve pulled back by degrees, his eyes heavy lidded as he said, "You worry too much, babe."  

"Whuh?"' Sam managed. 

"What's he worrying about now?" Mama Wilson asked, appearing at Sam's elbow and explaining (kinda) why Steve had kissed him. She reached around Sam to get the apple juice. "All they got is wine and liquor out there. Bunch of young heathens, every one of you. What's my Sammy worrying about?" 

Steve's eyes sparkled as he pulled Sam's hands out of his shirt and wrapped his arm around Sam's waist. "My poor beau here is worried that Misty and Danny are gonna show us up as the new It Couple. We've barely had a chance to gloat about our happiness," he said. 

Mama Wilson harumphed and sipped her apple juice. "If that ain't the silliest thing I've ever heard." 

Steve smiled. "Don't be too hard on him, Miss Darlene. There's a lot to be said for people fawning all over your relationship. Makes it feel real." Steve's fingers played up and down Sam's side like he was mapping out the architecture of Sam's ribcage. The whole left side of Sam's body buzzed with heat and energy.  

"I guess that's alright," Mama Wilson conceded. "But you gotta be in it even when the glitz and glam are over." 

"Of course," Steve said. Sam felt his brain going mushy and useless the longer Steve touched him. Even the layers of shirt and undershirt weren't enough. It was like Steve was dragging a hot poker along Sam's skin, if a hot poker could hurt and feel ridiculously good at the same time. "I told Sam," Steve continued as if he weren't torturing him, "I told him that even after everyone moves on, after 'Sam and Steve' isn't news anymore – say, three months from now – it will still be real. My feelings aren't going to change because no one's paying attention. And I like to think his won't either."  

Steve looked down at Sam expectantly and Sam nodded, completely done in by Steve's touch, his smell, his words. "My feelings won't change," Sam promised. 

"Y'all are too sweet," Mama Wilson said. And I'm glad Misty's happy with that Danny fellow. He looks like someone, though. That pretty boy, Melvin. Marvin. M--" 

"Maharvin," Sam said. "They're cousins." 

Mama Wilson made a face. "Y'all certainly know how to keep it in the family."  

Misty appeared in the kitchen then looking triumphant. "Oh good, you found the love birds," she said. "They keep running off to be alone, to 'meditate.'"  

Mama Wilson looked between Sam and Steve and Misty shrewdly. "I'm no fool," she said. "Meditating better mean praying to Jesus or I don't want to hear about it." 

Steve laughed. "Misty was just telling us how much she loves meditating with Danny. Says it's very relaxing." 

Sam beamed up at Steve, while Misty's scowl went ominously dark.  

Mama Wilson peered at them. "Like I said, meditation better mean prayer." 

"Not the way Danny does it," Sam muttered and he could feel Steve trying to hold in a laugh.  

"I'm gonna ignore that," Sam's mama said primly.  

Before sweeping out of the kitchen, Misty gave Sam a look that definitely meant she was going to set his apartment on fire next, but Sam didn't really care. Steve had his arm around him, they were laughing, and everything felt easy and good. 

 "I haven't seen you look this besotted since you brought Riley home to meet me," Mama Wilson said, looking up at Sam and Steve. She patted Sam's cheek.  

"Mama," he protested, feeling the blood rise on his face.  

"No need to play it cool," she said. "Y'all together now. It's not embarrassing to have a crush on your boyfriend, is it?" 

Sam glanced at Steve, who just shrugged and smiled.  

"Don't you need to investigate Danny more thoroughly?" Sam asked.  

"So you two can keep necking in the kitchen?" Mama Wilson asked. 

"Yes?" Sam said, wondering if that would earn him a swat. 

Mama Wilson rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "I'll let y'all be. Young love and all that." She patted her coiffed curls and glided away like a queen.  

Sam and Steve exchanged embarrassed smiles.  

"Guess we should--" 

"Go back out there." 

"Yeah." 

Sam and Steve rejoined the party and got separated from one another when Claire dragged Sam into a corner to yell about some dumb thing Matt had done recently and Steve and Amadeus got into a conversation about protein powder. Sam pushed a glass of merlot into Claire's hand after she'd gone on for about five minutes and was starting to get a little red in the face.  

"Medicine for the pain," he said, then inched away because Claire was sure to have loads more complaining to do – and who could blame her? That Matt guy seemed like a self-involved nightmare. Even if he was nice to look at – and Sam knew Claire was never going to take his advice – to date that nice nurse from the hospital – so he didn't want to waste his breath.  

Sam ended up leaning against the wall near the sofa, where Colleen, Rhodey, and Monica were talking in hushed tones.  

"We don't want to hog your spotlight," Monica was insisting.  

Colleen pshawed. "This was just an elaborate ruse to get free wine out of you guys. Which backfired, splendidly, by the way." She gestured to her coffee table laden with opened gifts. "You all brought me proper presents. Not a wine bag in sight." She sniffed tragically. "Not even a scented candle from anyone. It's like you guys know me too well to get me the generic gifts I crave." 

Monica and Rhodey smiled. "I'll let Tony know it's your birthday," Rhodey said. "He deals exclusively in alcoholic gift giving." 

Colleen's eyes brightened. "That should do me. And I can send him _This Bridge Called My Back_ because his feminism is shit." She tossed her long, inky hair over her shoulder. "Alright, steal my spotlight. Tell the crowd your good news." She tapped her wine glass with her long nails and the noise of it was surprisingly cutting. Sam's mama looked up from interrogating Danny – who looked as un-relaxed as Sam had ever seen him – and all around the room, people fell silent and looked over expectantly. 

Sam slid toward the door and slipped out of the cramped apartment. He could feel the beginnings of social exhaustion creeping up on him. One or two people, he could handle, but after about an hour, a crowd depleted all his strength. Sam took the elevator to the rooftop garden that Colleen scorned as a product of gentrification. When Sam pointed out that she was Japanese and technically apart of the swarm of gentrifiers in Harlem, she had huffed and said that was racist and homophobic, before cracking up and admitting that Sam probably had a point.  

It was late summer so there were a veritable feast of colorful blooms up here. Chrysanthemums, Bishop's Weed, Cleome, purple Victoria. The floral scent wasn't very heavy, competing with all the city smells, but Sam felt relaxed just being in the presence of flowers. He had idle dreams of opening a florist shop when he retired from hero work. Maybe a florist-meets-bookstore that only sold books with flowers and plants in the title. _Wind in the Willows. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Purple Hibiscus._ _The Secret Garden._ There were probably loads more. He'd sell bookmarks made from pressed flowers and make little vials of homemade rosewater. And he'd call it Eden. He sighed, pleased with the fantasy future he'd concocted. He stroked the soft petal of a flower he didn't recognize. 

"Monica and Rhodey just told everyone you're the godfather," Steve said, appearing at Sam's shoulder as quiet as a shadow. Distantly, the door to the roof clicked closed. 

Sam twirled the stem of a sunflower between his fingers and didn't turn to look at Steve. "Let me guess," he said, "my mama was mad that I didn't tell her in advance." 

"She did seem a little put out," Steve said 

"She likes to know everything," Sam explained. "She wants to be everybody's mama. Even when people already have perfectly nice mamas of their own." Sam smiled. "She loved Riley. I mean, for the obvious reasons. He was a great guy. But his family was shit. Rich, snooty assholes from Mississippi who would rather have a dead son than a gay son kissing a black guy." Sam tapped the dark center of the sunflower. He hadn't thought of Riley's parents in years. They hadn't let him go to the funeral. Riley's younger sister Lina had "run away" (the way only rich white kids can run away; she bought a plane ticket to New York) and begged Sam to let her stay with him. And he'd made the decision to move to DC, because he couldn't be responsible for her grief and his, too. She was married now, to some hotshot politician in Florida who was everything wrong with the Republican Party and she sent Sam Christmas cards of her perfect, wax figure family every year. Sam turned away from the flowers to face Steve, who was standing much closer than he'd thought. 

"You never told me that before," Steve said. Sympathy brimmed in his eyes and Sam shook his head. 

"Hadn't thought about it," he said. "Mama bringing up Riley back there must have shook loose some stuff." 

"You okay?" Steve asked. 

"Oh yeah, I'm fine. I'm well past the spinning-into-sadness stage of losing Riley. I just sometimes forget how much I liked him. Probably one of those coping mechanisms." 

Steve nodded. He seemed to be searching Sam's face for something, scrutinizing him like a jeweler looking for the flaw in a diamond. "Do you think your mama had a point?" he asked, the ocean in his eyes choppy and rough. "About you being happy like that again. With me?" 

Sam's breath got stuck in his chest and for a dreadful moment, he couldn't let it out, like someone was inflating a balloon in his lungs and the pressure was turning painful. And it was one of those can't-run-away-from-this situations that forced Sam's hand. He remembered lying next to Riley in a poorly constructed tent in Afghanistan and Riley saying that he got the wings because he was an adrenaline junkie with a hero complex. And Sam had thought about it and realized he just wanted to fly. He wanted to be able to launch into the sky and leave, because his whole life before joining the air force had been a quagmire of bad decisions. And Riley had said, "My poor darling. You thought you were flying _away_ when you signed up for this?" But there was no flying away. There was flying to save someone or flying to fail someone. Running away was never an option. And Sam would be damned if he failed Steve, who had just thrown himself off a cliff and was waiting for Sam to catch him. 

"Yeah," he said, feeling brave now that he'd arrived at the moment, "Yeah, I'm happy when I'm with you." 

Steve smiled. "And not just pretend?" 

Sam shook his head. "Pretending to date the person you like is a terrible idea, by the way. 10/10 Do. Not. Recommend." 

Steve tilted his head. "It got us here, didn't it?" 

"But it might not have," Sam pointed out. "I thought you were going to call the whole thing off after that first brunch, you were so mad." 

Steve shook his head. "I'm sorry. I was a little shit at that brunch." 

Sam shrugged.  

"But I wasn't mad at you. I was frustrated at myself. Because—because I wanted to be 100% sure that you felt the way I did before I made my move. But you're so damn elusive, Sam." He smiled. "I wasn't lying to Miss Darlene when I said I've gone back and forth about whether you liked me a hundred times. Or about Bucky and Nat's anniversary party." 

"That was a matter of perspective and interpretation," Sam interrupted.  

"Or New Year's," Steve continued.  

"New Year's, you went to talk to Bucky the moment we arrived." 

"I go talk to my friend for twenty minutes so you sleep with someone else?" Steve said, but he was laughing so Sam knew it was okay. 

"I can't believe how terrible we both are at this," Sam said. He grabbed Steve's hands  in his own. 

"I talked to Misty and Danny Friday when you went to the bathroom. Misty said you startle easy. That she'd had to trap you in an abandoned warehouse in Jersey to ask you out. That she'd only given you two options: actually answering her about whether you were interested or going out and fighting the deadly robots before any back-up arrived."  

Sam remembered. He'd even considered the messy-death-at-the-hands-of-robots alternative seriously. "It didn't go down exactly like that," he muttered.  

"Well," Steve laughed, "I didn't have any deadly robots on hand, so I listened to Danny. He said,  _T_ _he bird eats out of the hand of_ _the_ _man who is still_. I don't know. He might've actually been talking about a damn bird. I have no idea what he's on about half the time. But, you know, I did the whole 'still' thing. Every fiber of my being wanted to make a move in that taxi and then again on the subway and then again when I walked you home. And then again when we were watching movies Saturday." 

"Yeah," Sam said. "I kinda caught that." 

Steve lifted Sam's hands and kissed the back of each of them and despite being the most tender and innocent kisses in the history of the world, Sam felt a shiver of naked want.  

Steve wrapped his arms around Sam's waist. "I tried to relax," he said. "Tried not to be so anxious to get your attention." 

He pressed his hips into Sam's and Sam was wondering how they were going to leave this party without his mama noticing – hell, without all his loud, embarrassing friends noticing -- the hungry look in his eyes.  

"But you were standing in that kitchen looking like you do and you kissed me back and I kinda abandoned the plan." 

Sam smiled. "I'm glad. Although, for what it's worth, you had my attention." He rocked against Steve. "You had it all along." 

Steve ducked his head and kissed Sam and every nerve ending in Sam's body went haywire, firing _Yes! Oh wow! Do it again! This is the best!_ messages frantically. Sam didn't know how long they stayed up there kissing, but they were only interrupted when Misty cleared her throat and said, "I knew I'd find you idiots up here. You're welcome, by the way." 

She punched Sam's shoulder with her bionic arm so it packed a wallop. "And I guess I'll call us even on you ratting me out to your moms." 

"Thanks," Sam said, his lips feeling unbelievably tender, too tender for talking.  

"Was coming up to tell you the party's breaking up. Some of us are headed to a bar. You guys coming?" 

"Ah..." 

"Um..." 

"Steve might've left his stove on." 

"I boiled some water today." 

"And it's gas, so--" 

"The place could go up at any moment." 

Misty smirked. "Yeah, okay, I'll be sure to tell everyone there was a gas oven emergency in Brooklyn." 

"Speaking of," Sam said to Steve, "if we don't leave right now, Mama's gonna want to hop in a cab with us back." 

"Not that I don't love your mama, but I don't think she should be a witness to our cab ride." 

"I guess we're in agreement," Sam said. 

"Just so there's no ambiguity, I intend to kiss you all the way back to my apartment." 

"Oh yeah?" Sam challenged. "Then what?" 

Misty cleared her throat. "I'm still standing right here." 

"Sorry," Sam and Steve said, staring into each other's eyes and not sounding remotely sorry or even aware of what they should have been sorry for. 

Because for the first time in a long time they were on the same page, they knew that they wanted each other the way you know that night is night and day is day, knew with a gorgeous, core-melting, nerve-tingling certainty that they liked each other and that in the very near future, all the bzzt! and frission between them was going to turn into an electrical fire. For once, nothing was up for interpretation.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANYWAY, back to not writing fic for a while because I should be doing other things, goddammit. (But also, [hit me up](http://samuelwilson-rogers.tumblr.com) because I love y'all yelling at me about Samsteve. Bring me all your headcanons about Danny Rand while you're at it!!!)

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant for Samsteve Day 1 "Fake Relationship", but shit happens, so...
> 
> Also, this made me realize I've never done a 'fake dating' fic, which is ridiculous and needed to be rectified. 
> 
> Also, I hate titles more than anything else in the entire known universe.
> 
> Hollah at your girl on [Tumblr](http://meegansfuckingjacket.tumblr.com)


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